Nuclear Opera
by ArticulateZ
Summary: Shilo and Graverobber flee the city of the dead for the Wasteland, encountering the Lone Wanderer and Butch. Love triangles ensue!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: First serious try at crossover fanfiction! I adore both these worlds so very much, and here's my attempt at uniting them. There will be an actual plot, and spoilers regarding Fallout 3's main quest, so watch out for that if you've not finished the game. Unless you don't care. As this is highly experimental, I would LOVE feedback. Thanks for reading! :D**

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><p>The seventeen year old girl left the theatre into the bright lights, the cameras and their attached persons curious and waiting. Protesters, reporters, wide-eyed and waiting, waiting; overwhelmed at the attention, the teenager froze. Hesitance held her boots motionless, and the familiar driver reassured her. The crowds did not matter. He opened the door. Behind her, the past, dead and worthless. The lights began to explode into an array of colorful fireworks. Questions came forth, shouted, and she couldn't answer them. She stepped into the dark limo and the driver shut the door. Nestling deep into the soft leather upholstery, she felt that she was slipping into the middle distance. Outside, the world grew dark as the limo left the crowds, the city lights. She'd thought they were headed home. Now she wasn't so sure.<p>

"Uh, Mister Driver," she said awkwardly, finding it hard to unstick her blood-dirtied back from the leather. "Where are we going?"

She caught his eye briefly in the rearview mirror. He did not, however, answer her.

They overtook the city. The girl felt fear trickle in through the shock, that smog the opera had cast on her. He wasn't taking her home. She had no sense of direction, and all the streets looked bleak and unfamiliar to her. She got up on her knees and looked out the back. Darkness, and a sort of distant figure, the size of her hand. It was a struggle to focus on it, given how she'd drifted off a few times during the long drive. The limo stopped at a red light. Graverobber! She pressed her hands to the glass.

"Graverobber," she murmured, and heard a grunt from her driver. She looked over her shoulder. "Hey, slow down! I know him! That's my friend!"

He hit the accelerator.

The girl's heart was pounding very hard and very fast. 'Hostage situation' were the words that came to mind. She could jump out and try to roll—no. She immediately talked herself out of it out of fear. Graverobber was jogging, legs pumping the ground like he was giving it a work out, catching up, and he looked thrillingly determined. He caught up to the car as it slowed for a turn, grabbed for the driver side door, and threw it open. The driver stared at him in shock. Graverobber grinned.

"Bye-bye now," he said, grabbing the mustachioed chauffeur by the collar and chucking him out of the car. He took over and shut the door. Shilo darted forward and hugged him around the neck, laughing in relief.

The words 'my hero' came to mind.

Of course, she'd forgotten that he was a fast person. He hit the gas hard, took the curve sharply, sending her flying back against the seat.

"Buckle in, kid," he told her. He took his bag from around his neck and chucked it behind him, onto her lap. She held onto it.

"Where are we going?"

"Out of the city. That's what they expect." He looked one side to the other. "What they won't expect is for you and me to ditch the car and disappear."

"Out of the city?" she asked.

"Out of the city," he confirmed. "Yes, there is an out. Oh, there's much for you to learn, kid, and I… I gotta keep you safe."

"Wait, why can't I go home?"

She had half a mind to get into the front seat until she spied their ultimate destination: an abandoned bridge, high up, that broke off halfway through into stilted pieces. The concrete bridge, anyway. The bodies were stacked high, a mass of bodies creating the rest of the bridge out of the city. She crouched down, unnerved and terrified that they would crash and burn. It couldn't be possible to drive on a path of corpses.

"Your house is being watched. You go home, and you're taken. Kid, trust me on this, that is the last thing you want."

"How do you know—?" she wondered.

"I was in on it. Be mad at me later. Short story: Rotti wanted me to lead you. It's all been a set-up." He glanced in the mirror. "The driver was taking you into enemy hands. I couldn't let that happen."

She shuddered back into the seat, hands to her mouth. "Why not?"

"I plead the Fifth," he told her. She turned her head, confused. "Bill of Rights. It's an anachronistic reference. I'll explain later. You, stop talking!" He sternly shook his finger in the mirror.

They were barreling onward, approaching a rusted-over, iron gate with chains across it. The road bumped and rattled beneath them. She launched backwards, sinking her fingers under the seat and anchoring herself with a belt across her lap. "Graverobber! Stop!" When he didn't listen to her, either, and they were closer, she screamed, and repeated, "Graverobber!" Exasperated, "You can't be serious! Stop the car! Graverobber, no!"

"Sorry, kid, there's only one way out, and that's straight on and full speed ahead!"

He slammed down, and there was a squeal. The girl ducked down and covered her head and neck with her arms, mentally preparing herself for noise. Her expectations were not disappointed. It was loud as a rock concert when they tore through the gate, resulting in the destruction of the windshield. Glass sprinkled her back, and, looking up, she saw that they had passed onto the stomach-twisting bridge of bodies laid out for them. The wheels rolled through like mud and caused the limousine to rise and fall over the crooks and crannies of their cadaverous path.

"You're insane!" she told him.

He responded quietly and thoughtfully, "Yeah, that's likely. Aren't you?"

They made eye contact in the mirror. Their speed, at least, had dropped, and she almost wished it hadn't. Driving slowly over hundreds of the dead made her insides turn, and through the broken windshield, she could see and smell them clearly. It no longer looked like the city she'd seen all her life. There was water under the bodies, and she heard it squish far beneath them, a far off irritation like a single pea down the hundred mattresses the fairy tale woman slept on. No lights ahead whatsoever, only the insufferable darkness. She could not even discern the silhouettes of buildings.

Even the look of night was off, somehow. It was grey.

"Why do I get the sense you're doing me a huge favor?" she wondered.

"Because I am. Duhh. Kid, no offense or nothin', but I've not driven since I was but a young lad. Would you mind allowing me room to, ya know, concentrate?"

She fell silent. He'd saved her life, she was pretty sure, and it was the least she could do. They navigated slowly, sickeningly through the dead sea, rolling over flesh and crunching on the bones. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned around to watch the city lights dim and disappear into the fog. After the first progression, a mile or so at a speed of fifteen miles per hour, Shilo curled up on her side across the backseat and closed her eyes. The darkness, along with her exhaustion, whisked her to sleep.

She woke up with the sun in her eyes, shining through the windshield. A man was sitting in the front seat, head tipped back, mouth gaping. The teenager took a while to come to her senses and resist the urge to panic at the realization that she was not in her room, in her bed, in her home. She was somewhere brand new, and shakily she got out of the car and stood up. The ground was cracked dirt under her feet. The car was parked at the edge of the bridge, and beyond—an ocean of nothing. Dead earth, yellowed grass, a sky that was not really blue. There was a chill to the air, reminding her that she wore only a tight slip and boots.

Turning. A circle. There was nothing, nothing at all, and Shilo felt she was about to scream as she looked more wildly about her surroundings. Nothing! Nothing! A hand tapped her; she gasped.

"Hey! Take it easy." Graverobber, standing before her, smiled. She promptly burst into tears. He put a hand above the small of her back and patted. She crumpled toward his chest, had the sensation of his long coat wrapping around her. Really, it was his arms. "What's the matter? It's a desert. You know what those are, don't you?"

"There's nothing, nothing," she sniveled. To hell with it, it's not like she could ruin her makeup any more than she had the night before.

"Oh, you aren't looking right is all. According to my map—," Paper rustled behind her back, his hand smacked it for emphasis. "—There's a hotel nearby. Touristy sort of place. Should be civilized out here, I reckon."

"You think?" She looked up at him hopefully. "I didn't know this was here, all the space."

"Nor did I, truth be told. Funny. Why would everyone choose to be crammed in that city when there's whatever this is?"

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><p>He hacked. "How do you people BREATHE out here?"<p>

"We manage," she said dryly, restlessly swinging her nailboard from hand to hand. She wasn't gonna do anything, of course. The security guards still glared at her, watchful and ready with their big bad cop sticks.

"Why don't we rustle up some eats?" he suggested.

"Uh-huh." Distracted. 'Course she was distracted. The woman slung the weapon behind her back and approached the food counter, with its pile of currently unused menus. She took one and scanned the items and prices, waving over the waitress, Angela. The teenager flitted toward them and smiled cheerily, as always.

"Welcome back to Gary's Galley! It's been a while since we've seen your, er, smiling faces! What can I get you folks today?"

"Nuka-," they both said at once, and stopped. She let her companion go first. He grinned. "Nuka-Cola, and a steak with everything on it."

"Even the Eazy Cheezy Spray?" she confirmed, scrawling out his order. He nodded, and threw her a wink. She hmphed, turning up her nose; the swell in her abdomen, caused by her two month marriage to Diego, made her pretty much confirmed _unavailable_. That didn't stop boys from teasing. "And you?"

"Nuka-Cola, no ice, and the mac and cheese."

Angela wrote it down and said she'd be right back with their drinks. Butch turned up the radio on his Pip-Boy and pulled out his switchblade, checking his hair in the reflective metal. "Damn, I look gorgeous," he marveled.

The woman leaned on her elbow and watched him stare at his reflection. Yeah, he was gorgeous, alright. Dark skin, black hair slicked into a stylin' pompadour, and his profile was nothing short of heroic. Chiseled jaw, gorgeous cheekbones. Perfect bone structure. Since leaving the vault, he'd really bulked up and gained muscles in his arms and chest, really all over. Nineteen years old, and her former nemesis was looking tasty. Soon as they got out of here, she'd take him out to an abandoned farmhouse a passing merchant had told her about, and slip into the sexiest red nightdress she'd ever seen—loot from a recent trek into the subways. His eyes would pop out of his skull.

Angela brought two bottles, and set out plates, forks and knives. As they were the first arrivals, she hadn't had time to set up the place. "My daddy's grilling up your food," she told them. "Should be right out. You're in for a treat!"

She waited, smiling, a hand on her belly and the other limp at her side. Butch was elbowed. "Pay the lady," his friend said.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." Confused as to why he was paying, he dug around in the pocket of his leather jacket for caps.

Angela accepted the payment with a chipper "Thanks!"

Three Dog made an old announcement regarding the Lone Wanderer and how she'd helped Bryan Wilks find a home after Grayditch was destroyed by giant fire-breathing ants. She happened to be listening, sitting right there, and grinned in spite of herself. Being famous never got old. "Butch, turn off the radio. No one needs to hear that." Not for the tenth time. It was early in the morning, eight thirty, and they were the only ones at the counter. Her complaints that the radio would bother someone were erroneous, but Butch shrugged and shut it off anyway.

The Lone Wanderer picked up her plate and looked hard at the lady staring back with dead eyes. Surrounded by dark shadows from lack of sleep, her amber eyes were studded with sparse light lashes, and her caramel colored skin was chalky from the dust swirling through the Wasteland. Her thick, brassy hair had been forced into short pigtails high up on either side of her head, and bangs messily covered her forehead, nearly to the bridge of her nose, flat with broad nostrils. The full mouth was chapped and she licked it with a dark tongue. Her ears stuck out under the hair, and her chin was stubbornly pointed. Other than that, her head was reasonably heart-shaped, and she had a slender, graceful neck and nice collarbones. Butch would see that she was attractive if she showed him.

She feigned checking her teeth as a means to hide her thoughts before setting the plate down. The Lone Wanderer was pretty hopelessly in love with Butch, and he either hid his knowledge and possible reciprocation of said feelings really well… or was the stupidest boy she'd ever met.

He licked his switchblade and yelped.

Gee. Maybe he was that stupid.

They were served. They ate.

"After this," she began.

He interrupted with a groan. "Can't we ever eat without talking? What is it with you women?"

"I was thinking we could swing by that farmhouse. See if there's a Brahmin," she hinted. "Where there's a cow, there's steak."

"Color me sold!" he crowed, his mouth full. She said 'mm' and speared some noodles on her fork, popping it into his open mouth. He bit down, chewed. His blue, blue eyes lit up. "Mm-MM!" he concurred.

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><p>A full day's hike to the farmhouse, and they strolled with the sun blazing above and the radscorpions skittering about below. They evaded predators out of a developed practicality. Neither of them favored guns, and medical attention was hard to come by in the wastes. All wanderers were on their own, so if they squandered their blood away with a needless show of bravery and violence, the fault was all theirs.<p>

Sunset when they came in sight. She put a hand on Butch's arm, stopping him. "Shh." Even at a distance, it was obvious there was a firefight going on. Raiders were making a run at the barn, and within the loft were the defenders. Gunshots made their irrational popcorn explosions, and shouts of pain and aggression were the accompaniment to the tumult.

"Aw, come on, let's not be good Samaritans," Butch pled, exasperated. "Their own damn fault if they get creamed."

"Yeah? You don't believe in helping people who can help themselves?" she said, prodding him in the chest hard enough for him to stumble and raise his hands defensively.

"Yeah, yeah that's right. I do!"

She sneered. "I have one word for you, Butch DeLoria: Radroaches."

His face fell. He took his switchblade from his pocket and mumbled that he hated it when she was right. At this point, she was running the callused pad of her thumb over and over the nails sticking out of the wood board in her left hand. She brandished it high, let out a vicious roar, and charged at the raiders. The closest one, a male with a green mohawk, was taken by surprise; she smashed him into the ground and drove the points into his skull until his face was red paste. For good measure, she jumped up and down on his chest, stomping on his throat with the spikes on her ankles.

"YOU WANT TO DIE?" she yelled, swinging her board from one shoulder to the other.

The raider screamed back, comprehension taken from her by too much drugs. These morons hyped themselves up with it. As a result, they were practically inhuman, beasts driven by bloodlust and greed. The bloodlust, she could understand. The rest of it, not so much. While the raider was distracted by her screaming, Butch snuck up on her and stabbed his Toothpick into the back of her neck. He twisted it, and a well-timed shot from above took the bitch's head clean off. Meanwhile, she was bludgeoning another savage, and with each blow a little more blood sprayed onto her exposed skin. A lacrosse player of death, the Lone Wanderer charged recklessly across the field, smacking down anyone who got in her way. They were dazed or dead, she didn't care which. The important thing was to get to the people in the loft, with their guns. Butch charged with her.

"You're nuts, you know that?" he shouted.

She grinned at him in response. Her face was wet with blood.

They shut the door. She looked around for something to brace it, and spied a wheelbarrow full of concrete. Quickly, she dragged it over, grunting at the weight. She kicked up equal heapings of hay and dust with her shuffling. Butch shifted impatiently and gestured for her to hurry up the ladder, even gave her the last boost she needed to lift herself into the loft.

Her eyes widened. A tiny girl laying on her stomach was looking through the scope of a sniper rifle stuck through the open window, lining up shots below. She fired off quickly, too fast to count, and the bodies cried out and dropped.

"Graverobber, I'm running low!" she said, and the odd-looking man with the huge gun beside her obediently drew back and went to the ammo canisters against the wall.

The Lone Wanderer got up and gave Butch a hand before standing up. The man became aware of them and, mindful of the return gunfire, turned and fixed them with a bewildered stare.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We're here to save your asses," the Lone Wanderer said, not too sure they really needed any assistance. She'd had her heart set on being alone in this barn with Butch, damn it, and this mayhem, while a fun release of energy, wasn't what she'd been hoping for when it came to an evening's activities.

"Graverobber! Hurry!" the girl insisted. She turned around and cupped her hands; he tossed her a box of .308 rounds. With expert care, she reloaded her weapon. Shots went off. "Okay. That's the last of them, I think."

Butch let out a low whistle.

Oh, God, no, the Lone Wanderer thought to herself. Don't let her be pretty.

"That was incredible," Butch said.

The girl brushed hay off her dress and accepted her comrade's assistance in straightening up to greet them. She was petite, a little over five foot even with her big girl boots. Her black hair was long, straight and strangely clean. It hung to her waist, and her skin was perfectly pale and clear of battle scars. She wore a green dress tied with a blue ribbon. She was pretty and young, and she was shy, standing close to the man for security.

He was her father or something, except he looked a bit too young. Not that he was _young_. He had rainbow-colored hair and a face painted white. His coat was too long, as was his scarf. Everything about him was huge, and he had to turn his head down in order not to bump the low ceiling. For the life of him, he couldn't seem to stop smirking. They did not look like ordinary wastelanders.

"We're not here to rob you," she said, putting her weapon behind her back. She flicked blood off her cheek.

"Good. I'd hate to have to shoot you," the man said casually.

"You're a Graverobber?" she asked him.

"Did the name give it away?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. This is Butch-," she indicated him with a jerk of her head. "—and I'm the Lone Wanderer."

"Yeah," Butch said, sounding a bit dazed. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, sidled up to the quiet girl. His comb had replaced his knife; he ran it through his hair, twirling the end of his pompadour. "You got a name, little lady?"

"Shilo. My name's Shilo."

That was all the words they needed, apparently. The Lone Wanderer saw that they took to each other right away; sure, her hesitance was still there, but it was clear the little sniper warmed up to Butch nonetheless because she smiled at him and turned from the graverobber to him. He played suave, fooling everyone in the vicinity who hadn't grown up with him. In an effort to distract herself from her bitterly sinking heart, the Lone Wanderer looked around the loft and saw evidence of habitation: two bags against the wall, a teddy bear, boxed food, and spare weapons in solid wood cases with accompanying ammunition.

"You've been staying here?" she asked them not too long later, when they'd jumped one by one out the window onto the ground.

"A few days," Shilo piped up.

Graverobber, since that was apparently his actual name and not just what he did, was picking through the raiders' pockets for loose valuables.

"We slept in the barn," she went on.

The Lone Wanderer had a mental picture of the big guy cradling her while she clutched at a teddy bear. Nights were cold, and he looked, well, cuddly.

Giving voice to her thoughts, Butch asked uncertainly, "You two, uh, together?"

"No, of course not!" She laughed. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Okay, but only since you asked nicely." He winked and she blushed.

The Lone Wanderer felt like vomiting all over their adorable flirtfest. Graverobber grinned and showed off his findings: Jet, whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, and thirty caps. Eagerly, seemingly following some routine, Shilo fetched dry wood and worked on crafting a small fire for them to sit around. She cheated with the use of a silver lighter, took it right out of Graverobber's pocket. He didn't seem to mind, and soon the fire was going, small but intensely warm. They sat around, and he divided up the goods.

"Tonight, we live like kings!" he said, his artificially pale face made even more crazily theatrical by the firelight.

The Lone Wanderer doubted, with her wild, untamed hair and blood-spattered face, that she looked much better. The two of them were the painted freaks, and Butch and Shilo were, by comparison, clean. They were innocent-looking, especially Shilo, flying in the face of the chilling precision by which she'd taken out those raiders.

"And tomorrow, we'll have headaches," Butch deadpanned.

Shilo laughed.

The Lone Wanderer held up her hands, and Graverobber tossed her the bottle. She swirled it and took the first swallow, and the second, and the start of tipsiness settled right around her eyes and warmed her throat. "You don't look old enough to drink," she said, handing it over to Shilo. The teenager took a beat to use the inhaler and pass it on to Butch. He depressed the inhaler, sucking in the fumes, and promptly stood up, beating his chest. Shilo tipped her head back and drank.

"I'm seventeen!" she declared, cheeks glowing from the rush. Jet: euphoria, energy, crash, in that order, and highly addictive if caution wasn't exercised. So it went.

"She's seventeen. In case you didn't hear her the first time, she'll be repeating herself periodically throughout the evening," Graverobber told them.

"Hey!" she pouted, launching herself at him to smack his shoulder with her fists.

"Kid, kid, cut it out! Ouch, mole rat bite," he complained. She stopped right away, contrite. He patted her head. The Lone Wanderer had to be drunker than she thought; she could've sworn the girl's hair moved.

They passed around the bottle until it was empty. Graverobber divvied the cigarettes. He did not offer any to Shilo, and when Butch tried to correct this, the girl shook her head. "I don't smoke," she said quietly.

"Hold up. You'll drink, huff Jet—why not smoke?" the Lone Wanderer asked.

"Yeah, it's just tobacco. It's harmless!" Butch said.

"Um, there's a lot of organ failures where we come from," she said. "I don't want to risk it."

Butch looked at the Lone Wanderer. They pulled serious faces and cracked up. Imagine, tobacco being considered unhealthy! They smoked happily, and were happily drunk, and chatted together about how crazy the week had been, and where they could go in the morning. She was gunning to go on a Quantum run, while he wanted to catch a Yao-Guai and lop off the hand required for a badass gauntlet.

It did not occur to them that they'd be staying with the odd pairing sitting around the fire with them. Things just didn't work that way. People did not stay together, and bigger groups were dangerous, inviting internal conflict and external attention. It was just asking for trouble.

Shilo had passed out with her head on Graverobber's shoulder.

He gazed at the fire and watched it die down. If what he was doing wasn't brooding, she didn't know what was.

"I'm still pretty drunk," she slurred to Butch, saying it close to his face. He jerked back.

"Yeah, drunkie, smells that way to me," he told her with a stupid smile.

"Point is, I gotta pee. Make sure I don't get killed?" She stood up, stumbled, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He groaned and said he didn't want to watch; he wasn't _that_ wasted. "No, come on, please. I'll give you, uh, I'll give you a kiss. Or something."

He laughed at her. "Quit threatening me, girl. Let's go." He walked her behind the barn, she leaning heavily on him. She undid her zipper, lowered the tight pants, and peed behind a crate, sighing in relief.

When they got back to the fire, really little more than embers by now, Graverobber had collapsed on his back. Shilo had cuddled up to him like he was her teddy bear. He shrugged at them helplessly, his expression clearly saying What can I do?

The Lone Wanderer laid down with her arms under her head and stared up at the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

The former Vault Dweller was a simple gal with few requests of life, and of those wishes, life seldom delivered. It didn't matter what she wanted. Someone else's happiness always had to come first. A while ago, sometime between fishing a BB out of her arm with a scalpel and watching the man she loved most fall to his knees, she'd learned to suck it up, stop whimpering over what couldn't be changed, and move on.

She woke up late, strange for her, with dull waves of pain rippling from her noggin. That was what she got for drinking to excess. Moderation, moderation, why did you forget about stopping when your tolerance did, she berated herself. When she sat up, something fell off her face that had been obscuring her vision, making it dark: a… scarf? The fire of the night before that had roared and breathed out heat onto the jubilant campers was dead, white ash the last remnants. She blearily touched it with two fingers and let the tongues of wind take it off of her fingertips; to blow about in grey eddies, to join the rest of dust in the air, to leave.

There wasn't hide nor hair of the fellows she'd fallen asleep by. Noting a distinct lack of signs of struggle, she looked about slowly and stood up. An afternoon sun roasted her eyes; she raised a hand in salute, to guard her peepers from the glare. A bustle and hustle came from behind her, so she whirled, drawing a penknife. The man called Graverobber laughed at her. While she was sleeping, the trio had broken back into the barn and retrieved Graverobber and Shilo's belongings. He had a bag at his side, and a pack on his back, along with his shotgun. Stooping by her, he picked up the scarf and replaced it 'round his neck.

What a strange man. It was far too long, even with his stature. He was wearing more cosmetics on his face than she ever had, and it wasn't smeared or blurred at all. She thought about him carefully applying eyeliner in a ladies' bathroom, and asking a girl if he could borrow a tampon. It took all her concentration to only smirk and not laugh.

"What were you trying to do, smother me?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips and stretching her back.

"I figured you wouldn't want to sunburn. Was I wrong?"

"Just because I'm dark, I toast like… toast." As proof, she held her hand up to her stomach, to show the different shades of honey-brown. Her hands were very dark, and had odd tan lines from the fingerless motorcycle gloves she sometimes liked to wear.

She was a fan of leather.

"You're welcome," he said dryly.

"Where's Butch?" she asked, although a part of her suspected.

Graverobber grimaced. "Helping the kid with the rest of our crap. They didn't seem too happy to have me there as chaperone."

She nodded, looking at the barn, imagining what the two could be up to. She didn't see what they could have to talk about, since they'd only met half a day ago. They couldn't have anything in common. "Why do you call her that?"

"Because that's what she is." From one of the many pockets in his long coat, he found sunglasses, and twirled them by the frame. "These aren't mine," he mused.

"Pick them off a raider, did you?"

"No. They're hers."

While her eyes kept snapping to the barn, he focused on the glasses, an odd half-smile under his nose.

Butch had hay on his jacket, dirt in his hair, and sweaty palms. He noticed all this but didn't care. She'd gone up to the loft to change her clothes, and as reward for not peeking, God or fate or whatever had decided to have her wear a slip, a black silk slip and that's it. She climbed down to where he stood slack-jawed and finished packing up, bending instead of getting on her knees. Complaining about there not being room enough for everything, she gave up and knelt like a normal person. He assisted her in putting the sniper rifle on her back, securing it. In her canvas bag, she put plenty of ammo, what was left of the food after breakfast, and her teddy bear, its adorable, fuzzy head poking out. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't mention it." He did not know what to say to her. "So what's the story with you and that goon, huh?"

"Who, Graverobber?"

"Yeah, that's the one. He your hired guy or something?" Butch wanted to know. It was weird, a cute little lady like her being trailed around by a mime. Except, mimes didn't talk, and that guy never shut up. He sure liked to hear his own voice. And what was with the makeup? Was it tribal? Men did not wear makeup. Period.

"He's my best friend. Saved my life more times than I'm willing to admit," she said sheepishly. "And no, I don't know his name. It's possible he doesn't have one."

"Nuh-uh, everyone's got a name. Everyone's been born, and no mom would put 'Graverobber' on a kid's birth certificate."

"Okay." After that, she found her boots interesting to look at, and it was palpably awkward. Talking was never this hard with—but he didn't like her that way. This girl was new, and incredible, and smoking hot.

He took his flask from off his leg and offered it to her with a smile that felt strained no matter how he tried to control it. It was impossible to act natural. "Hair of the dog?" To his relief, she took it and swallowed. Alcohol: the great social lubricant.

"Thank you," she said. She passed it back, and they promptly fell back into the terrible, never-ending silence. Alcohol was not living up to its reputation.

"Where are you guys headed?"

"I… I don't know. We were thinking of going to… Megaton, I think is what it's called. That's west of here," she said, concentrating hard to remember old information. "Isn't it?"

"That's right, doll, it's west, and you'll get into a lot of trouble without guides," he said.

"We've been okay so far. We take care of each other."

"No, listen." Lifting his eyebrows, he reiterated, "You could use experienced guides to help you get there. Catch my meaning?"

"Oh!" She smiled. "Yeah. I think so. Um, it's just, uh…"

"What?"

"Won't she mind? Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked, then hinted, "Someone to be with?"

"Nope. The Butch-Man don't got plans." He did his best to make his light eyes smolder, and to make his twanging voice more suave. She stared at him, cowed. Cow eyes, her mouth open. Then she giggled, and he grinned. "You want to travel with me?"

"I… think I'd like that," she said slowly. "You do know we'll have to talk our companions into being okay with this."

Part of him wanted to say forget about those two, that they could make the trek alone. Butch, however, was not a moron, and he didn't like this girl enough to go get killed for her. They needed the heavies with them, because in a fight, the two of them? It wouldn't be a pretty sight. He patted her back lightly and told her not to sweat it, that he had it in the bag. Truth was, as he left that bag, he was nervous, and sweating; more so when he saw how pissed the Lone Wanderer looked.

"Done flirting?" she asked. He took her aside, slinging an arm across her shoulders so they could buddy up.

"I think it's time to expand the Snakes. What do you say we recruit those guys?" he suggested.

She rolled her eyes. "Butch, you're in a gang of one. Spit out the real reason or we walk. You know I'm the brains of this operation."

"Yeesh, you can be a bitch of a broad." He dropped his voice. "The girl—"

"Shilo."

"Shilo wants to get to Megaton. They don't know the way like we do. They're clueless. That is, they could really use some help."

"What's that got to do with me?" she said, but he could tell by the way she sighed that the matter was pretty much resolved. Yeah, he was _the best_.

"You're such a goodie two shoes. You won't let them end up carrion," he said. She tilted her head to push on his shoulder as she bumped their hips. They laughed; he hugged her shoulder as thanks.

Once he'd left the Vault, he thought dating was over. He'd been too busy fighting for his life to slow down and go city by city to look for non-nutjob dames. Now, he had a chance, and a pretty decent one, with a girl who seemed sane. Saner, at least, than the one currently teasing him, calling him five letter words.

Meanwhile, Shilo was wheedling Graverobber to give her a break and please, please, _please_ could they join their groups together.

"I don't know," he said. "Two's safer than four. Kid, you know I have your best interests at heart." Solemnly, hand to his chest, as if taking an oath.

She took that hand and removed her sunglasses, placing them over her eyes and obscuring the emotions playing out on her face as they spoke. "I know you do. I trust you," she said, making sure to emphasize 'trust.' Her hand curled on his arm. "They know this place better than we do. It's been a few weeks, and that's it."

"Five weeks," he corrected her. "I'm well aware. Did you see how they charged at their opponents? We go in shadows. We calculate."

"Yes, and _we_ almost got killed yesterday. If they hadn't come along," she reminded him. "And I like him. You've said so yourself, that my life hasn't been normal."

"Oh, kid, believe me, if you're looking for the picture of normalcy, you'd best keep lookin', because that ain't it," he sneered.

"Graverobber." She stood on tiptoe, to place her head on his chest. "A normal life involves boys. I'm not a little girl and can make my own choices in this arena. You don't have to agree with me, okay?"

"Good. I don't." He smiled, picked up her hand and removed it, setting her down to normal. "If it makes you happy, I guess we can give it a shot."

* * *

><p>The problem wasn't found in the fact that there were other people along on their expedition. Graverobber was a people person in the sense that it was helpful when there were folk around whom he could steal from and scam. Rarely were they worth becoming more closely acquainted with. And that, right there, was the problem. Shilo hadn't taken her sad eyes off of Butch since they'd started on the road, and what's more, she had made Graverobber her confidante in trivial, girlish matters. She sometimes tugged on his sleeve. He would stoop for her, and she'd cup her hands around the shell of his ear and say Butch had looked back at her, and wasn't that neat?<p>

Her furnace breath tickled.

He didn't take issue with her dating, per se. Shilo didn't belong to him, and he certainly didn't feel some compelling need to plant a flag on her ass in the name of Graverobber. The intention had never been for a codependency between them to form. After all, socialization was important, and the pup had little to none before he'd come along and stolen her away. And yet, that Shilo looked to be heading in a romantical direction with this boy… well, it irked him. Butch was a little twit. Nothing more than a punk know-it-all from an underground cooler.

The Lone Wanderer was arm in arm with Butch, had been for the last half a mile; then, however, she grabbed him around the neck, giving him a thorough noogie and messing up his pompadour. With a disgusted shout, he pushed, and they snapped apart. A punch or three was thrown at her shoulder, and she defended herself by stepping back. They settled down and resumed the stroll with their hands and arms at their sides.

Butch combed his hair and, as he did so, he turned and walked backwards a few paces to see if Shilo had seen the scuffle. She giggled and hugged Graverobber's sleeve the moment the prettyboy turned back 'round to avoid stumbling on a rock.

"Why don't you walk with him?" he asked, removing her by the back of her dress. "You're eager enough."

"Oh, I wouldn't know what to say to him. He's _cool_," she said, like it meant something. It meant something to her, and she was aching for advice, pining for the smarmy greaser in his tacky leather jacket.

He explained to her that cool guys were like any other person, and Butch was undoubtedly more scared of her than she was of him. This astonished Shilo. For the next two leveled blocks, she was dumbfounded and could say only "Really? Really? Really?" and an occasional "I don't believe you!"

Ushering her forward by shoving her right between her shoulder blades, he propelled them up to the main attraction. Shilo tried to dig in her heels and protest. She went silent and scowled. That was the thanks he got for trying to help her out, even though he didn't really want to. Well, never in all his life! He strolled ahead, to scope out the scenery. An ant the size of his foot crawled along the path. Behind him was the sound of youngsters talking, and the breeze roaring gently as a crying lamb. The ant would find no pardon, and he squashed it. The blood was a bug spray, and the insides, the sticky pieces of shell were scraped off on the sidewalk.

Two radscorpions later, the group stopped at a diner with the windows all blown out by the ancient blasts, the tiles all scuffed, counters blackened. Call of nature made the girls head to the bathroom in the back, while the menfolk awkwardly stood around, holding the gals' oversized bags.

In the filthy bathroom, Shilo tried to talk herself into using the disgusting half-toilet. Most of it had been reduced to rubble, but it looked to be in working order. But, oh, it was _so gross_. In the next stall over, the Lone Wanderer was humming something from the radio. Giving a whimper, she went ahead and did it, and scrubbed hard at her hands with soap over the sink. The Lone Wanderer snickered at her.

"You'd think you were new in town, sister," she said. Hands still dripping, the blonde patted her hair more or less into place and wetted her lips with sink water.

"Why don't they fix it?" Shilo asked.

The Lone Wanderer picked up the trash can and shook out its contents; Shilo scrambled to get away from the refuse. There were bottle caps scattered in the paper muck, and used syringes. While picking through it, the lady tossed the unwanted things in Shilo's direction. Shilo backed up against a stall to escape the pelting of filth.

"Who's going to do that? It's anarchy out there, and guns make the rules, not wrenches."

"You don't use a gun," Shilo muttered.

"Could if I wanted to," the Lone Wanderer snapped. "The point is, who cares about a damn leaky toilet? We're all just trying to survive. What's the sense of whining?"

"I'm not…" A big sigh was heaved. This lady had Shilo awestruck, and at the same time gave off the unwelcoming air that she didn't want anything to do with Shilo. "Did I, uh, do something?"

The Lone Wanderer fixed her pigtails without a mirror's aid and said she was good in a fight, she'd give her that much credit. Beyond that, she concluded, they didn't have anything to talk about. Shilo, unaccustomed to the cruel realm of social rejection, felt her face grow hot, and to avoid scrutiny she stormed out. She was a teenager and had to go the dramatic route. Her body felt out of control. She'd done nothing wrong!

"What, do you not like me either?" she demanded of Graverobber. It came out louder than she'd meant.

The men were baffled.

"What?"

"You heard me. You're here to shepherd me, right? And now this group is here, and they don't even want me around," she said angrily. He tried to pacify her, reassure that he wasn't there solely as a protective service.

"Yeah, you're wanted," Butch added.

"Shut it," Graverobber warned him. "This is the last thing she needs."

"What?" Shilo exploded. "Who are you to decide that? My life's in my hands, understand?" To drive her point home, the girl clapped her hands together soundly once. "I'm no wilting specimen. Not an exotic bird that needs caging and protecting."

Butch had backed up, seeing that it was a sort of couple's fight, and if fists didn't fly, spit was, from both their mouths from the fury of their projected words. He stuck his hands in his pockets and wanted badly to be out of there.

"No, you're a human teenager, and a rude one, at that. If you can't take a little criticism, since I'll hazard a guess and say that's what has you in this tizzy, then you can't handle the complication of sex. Yes," he went on, exasperated by her embarrassment, how she looked at Butch and then at the ground, "That is what these things tend to lead to in the real world. Get over this virgin mindset."

"Asshole," she hissed, the first time she'd ever cursed at him, but he didn't let it alter his grimace a whit. She did not take back her things. He did not bother her to do so and take a weight off his shoulders because, by the way, she went to the door and leaned on it, staring out on the endless wastes with a furrowed, troubled brow, he'd added some weight to hers.

The Lone Wanderer emerged with tidier hair and twenty-one caps. Graverobber said he'd hold onto those, scooping them up from her hand, ignoring her protests with a smirk. She should've been faster in stopping him.

It amazed him, that there were these endless stretches of empty road, with no one around. On the island, it was impossible for him to go one step without being swarmed by addicts craving the glow. He'd taken to hiding in dumpsters just to get a moments peace. Now here he was, surrounded by the peace he'd long craved. They went on as if nothing had happened, the only change that Shilo was in the definite lead, up ahead. She came upon a metal gate, tall and unbending. She clasped the lock and bypassed the common notion that all things had to be broken into with lockpicking; it was a simple matter for her to hold the gate open and slip through. She waited on the broken asphalt for them to follow. An idyllic street sprawled before them, two lines of two-story homes with a wide aisle in the middle and a playground at the end. Confident, she walked on ahead, down the road. The others lingered by the gate; the Lone Wanderer looked at the sign on the gate.

"Someone get her back here," she said, serious and even a tad frightened. "Now."

The sign in question read "WARNING: EXPLOSIVES!"

The world became slow motion then, or perhaps it became very, very fast. Shilo's foot stepped. She heard a mild tick, and she was confused and then alarmed. All at once, Graverobber dropped what was on his back, what was affixed to his side, and raced forward, shouting "GRENAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADES!" He scooped up Shilo as the mine went off, and she screamed and held tight around his neck. He navigated through the minefield she'd unwittingly tiptoed into and laid her down on the brittle grass.

She was crying and squirming, and she wrapped her hands around the burned section of leg. It took considerable coaxing for her to remove them so he could check the damage. Chips of debris had fixed in her thigh, and one had improbably caught her shoulder. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and pulled out the shoulder triangle, the only bit that stuck out and was shallow.

"Lucky girl," he told her. "These are superficial injuries. At worst, you'll limp a day." Butch and the Lone Wanderer hurried over. "Med-X?" he asked.

"I want Zydrate," Shilo sobbed.

"Nope. All out, kid, remember? I sold some for food." He uncapped the syringe with his teeth and stuck her with it, forcing himself to feel detached, maybe a bit prideful that he was good, and practiced. Oh, yes. There was talent in his hands, when it came to the removal of pain from pretty young things. "Miss Bitch here is going to disarm those grenades, like I know she can, and then we'll settle you in some dead man's cold sheets. How's that sound?" The Lone Wanderer sighed and headed off to follow the suggested orders. Before doing so, she gave him a scalpel, tweezers, and a dingy cloth.

"What can I do?" Butch asked, dropping to his knees.

It surprised Graverobber that the boy was offering. Hell, could be he'd misjudged him. So what if he looked and acted like a twit. He was showing concern and care in all the right places. Butch was a scared kid, and his general, obnoxious attitude did not make his crush a farce. Graverobber would have to ignore his ego and step back to give Butch room in Shilo's life.

Not that he'd be thrilled about making such concessions.

Shilo held out her hand, and Butch took it, hesitantly. Little birds needed coaxing before settling in a stranger's palm. She, however, trusted him, and Graverobber had to trust her. Trust her judgment. It had served her well so far. The only slip in judgment she'd ever had had been when she'd left the safety of her house to chase fireflies and fiends in trenchcoats, and even that misstep had set her free.

He began to remove the shrapnel from the tender, burned flesh. He used expert and delicate touches, but could not entirely avoid slicing into her and forcing winces and creative curses into her vocabulary. She squeezed Butch's hand hard enough for it to pop off. They got her into one of the pastel houses, on a couch in the no-longer-living room, under a blanket from upstairs, since she fell asleep before they could negotiate how to get her into a bed.

"I'm gonna hit the hay," Graverobber yawned.

"It's eight," the Lone Wanderer said flatly after checking her Pip-Boy for the time.

"Yeah. I need my winks before staying awake during the moon hours. Sweet dreams, adventurers," he said, and headed up the stairs with a fancy sweep of his coat. A door to one of the bedrooms slammed.

Butch stood, watching the unconscious Shilo, and the Lone Wanderer stood, watching Butch. Butch became aware of the awake eyes watching him and gave a self-conscious start. "I need a smoke," he said, and headed outside with a cigarette in his teeth.

Which left her alone with Shilo.

The kid—and, the Lone Wanderer had to admit, the Graverobber's nickname was apt—had a shit life. A troubled past, one might say. Without giving up too many details, Graverobber had given her the gist of it: orphaned at a young age, psychologically and physically abused by her guardian, and all of her role models had been murdered right before her eyes in the span of an hour.

So why was she giving her such a hard time?

She didn't have to be this petty person. They had suffering and dark secrets in common. Did it matter that they both liked the same guy? Moreover, did it matter enough for Shilo to deserve mistreatment? The answer, for both, was no. "Okay, I get the picture," she said out loud to her conscience and the sleeping girl.

She took the unoccupied bedroom, which had been intended for kids. As a result, her feet hung off the edge of the bed, and she had a hard time resting, imagining a youngster's last night in this bed. It was the morbid time of night. Rest was important, to rejuvenate the mind and body, and therefore it was next to impossible to get. She found a fragment of bone and gave up on the idea of sleep.

Shilo went out on the porch and gazed at the stars. They were the clearest she'd seen them since leaving home. She raised her thumb to the North Star, closing one eye to make the brightness pop out all the more in the blue-black setting. She didn't see Butch, leaning against the house in shadows, in half-thought.

"You know," he said, smirking at the astonished 'oh!' she made when he made his presence known, "When I was a kid, my friends and I came up with the idea that there were dragons out here."

"Were you disappointed?" she asked.

"You ever seen a dragon?"

She shook her head. "I saw a guy breathe fire. That was a circus trick. No, not an actual dragon."

"Me neither. Doesn't stop me from hoping."

"When I was a kid, I wanted to go outside. My wish came true. Yours could, too," she said with a shy smile.

He noticed her shivering and took off his jacket, placing it over her white shoulders. "Say, how would you like to be an honorary Tunnel Snake?"

Shilo slid her arms into the sleeves, liking the soft leather on her skin. "Tunnel Snakes?"

"Yeah. It's the gang I started. It's the toughest, baddest gang this Wasteland's ever seen!" he crowed. "You're a Tunnel Snake now. What do you think of that?"

She grinned. "Badass," she said. "Do you kick ass and take names?"

"You bet, girl! We fight with the fangs. You know what it's about, what it's really about?" he asked her, eager to talk now that he had drawn her into it, made her laugh, made her open up and be interested in an obvious way.

"Raising hell?" she guessed.

"That, too. Not what I had in mind. Well, my fellow Tunnel Snake, I'll tell you. Freedom. That's the good life. You make your own life, no rules, no order, no boss."

"But there is a uniform."

"Yeah, but a very cool one," he assured her.

Of that, Shilo had no doubt. She felt like the coolest gal in the Wasteland.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Hey, everyone. Hope you're enjoying the story thus far, but I would really appreciate reviews. They help me write and whatnot. Anyhoo... Thank you for reading! :D**

* * *

><p>Their second week together, he woke her up before the crack of dawn. Shilo rubbed at her eyes and stumbled about in the dark to find her gear. "Where're you taking me? Somewhere romantical?" she guessed.<p>

"Nope. Not really." He hustled her along.

Shilo bade him to turn around and changed out of loose sleeping clothes into black shorts and a loose tank top with necklaces and belts of bullets. He couldn't help it and peeked when she had the shirt half-on, earning a swat aimed at his head that fell harmlessly on his shoulder, given that her arms were half-trapped in fabric. Man, she was smoking! When he was allowed to really look, he gave an approving grin.

"Come on, let's go before the boring people wake up," she said, taking his hand.

They consulted his Pip-Boy map with some infrequency, but he wouldn't exactly tell her where they were going until they got to the subway entrance a brief hike away. He pointed his thumb at the locked grate and asked if she wouldn't mind giving it a whirl. Graverobber had mentioned in passing that she'd been under his tutelage in bypassing security, and that included lockpicking. It was too bad she didn't walk in front of him up to that point, when she hustled down the stairs and went to unlock the entrance. She broke two pins and swore loud enough for him to laugh at her impressive 'vocabulary.' To her fortune, with a snap the lock was undone, and the girl unwound the chain, wrapping it around her arm and then dropping it on the ground, to let them pass.

Butch ushered her into the subway.

"It's spooky in here," she murmured, her voice echoing in the close quarters.

Rubble, rubble everywhere, and blocked turnstiles. Shilo was unfamiliar with the system, and her companion explained everything: how people bought tickets to ride a moving car that, like Superman, was faster than a speeding bullet, and how talking robots checked for tickets. How those same robots open fired on people if they failed to produce tickets or identification. "How savage your version of civilization sounded!" she remarked, to which he laughed.

"Yeah, but we don't go around chopping people open for their organs."

Giving a playful shove, the girl said, "Shut up" and they both chuckled and laughed.

What shushed them well and good was the skittering heard nearby. Drawing his switchblade with one hand, he shushed her with the other, holding a finger to his mouth. Hearts pounding, the two went around the corner, and past the broken turnstiles was a door marked Maintenance, and when they went through, there was a terrible screech as an enormous pink rodent lunged at Butch's head.

Deflecting it with his arm, he threw Shilo behind him and yelped, the creature having locked its little, sharp teeth into his flesh. He stuck it quickly with the toothpick in hand, right in its gut, and sliced up. It gave a dying squall and let go. Butch rubbed his raw forearm. "That stings," he complained. "Good thing I brought bandages."

"And booze," Shilo said, all quieted by fear. "What the hell was that?"

"A Mole Rat. Nasty creatures. They're unusually sized rodents." He winced when Shilo took his flask and poured over the bitten area. "Yikes, it smarts."

After a few minutes of rest and patching up, they were ready to go on. In the room, they found a deactivated robot. Shilo wanted to talk to it, but Butch pointed out that it would, in all likelihood, shoot them. They had a fun time looking through the racks for bullets for Shilo's gun, and laundry detergent for their clothes, both of which there was in abundance, as well as bubblegum and Nuka Cola. Shilo guzzled the Cola like it was air, but the gum she puzzled over.

"What is this?" she asked.

"That? It's… it's gum." He was baffled. "You know what that is. Don't you?"

"Is it food?"

"Not exactly. Chew it." He opened the box, took out a strip, passed it over. She chewed very hard, expecting it to be stiff, and instead found that it stretched and pulled and twisted around her mouth easily, and the flavor was artificial but delightful. Like cotton candy, which she'd had once, courtesy of what her father had brought home from the carnival. "You're pretty sheltered, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." She batted at him like a kitten. "You've been mauled once today, Butch. Really want to try for twice?"

A far-off voice made them stiffen.

"No fucking shit, you think I'd lie? Smell that," a horrible, rasping voice decreed, and there was a long, exaggerated sniff. "We got company."

"Raiders!" Shilo said, and began to take her gun from off her back. Sniping would do them no good at this range, and his switchblade was no match for doped up raiders armed with who knows what. Butch stopped her, drew her back into a corner with him, shut the door. He held her close to muffle the frantic sound of her breathing. "Need my pill—oh, wait, I don't."

He stared up at the ceiling and begged for her to be quiet. The footsteps drew close. Closer. Closer.

"We're gonna find you," a voice said eagerly. "And k-k-ke-kill you."

Shilo whimpered. Butch wanted to cry. If there was more than two, they were screwed. Hell, they were probably screwed anyway.

But they turned back.

"Ah, guess you were imagining it. There's no one," one said disgustedly, and they ran off, hollering.

Shilo clung to Butch, buried her face in his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. Not affection held them in that pose, but fear, pure and simple, that stunned them into freezing in another's arms. It was a while before they moved, when all the noise died away and there was just the sound of breathing. Then they ran, out of the sewers, into the open, and it was light outside. Shilo laughed, dancing free.

"They're gonna be worried about us!" she told him.

They had time for one more diversion.

In an abandoned shell of a car: they pulled each other into the backseat, and they babbled excitedly about surviving monsters and raiders and boredom, and he put his hand to the back of her neck. She looked at him, wondering, marveling. And he went close and kissed her.

It wasn't much of a kiss. His mouth was dry, and she right away put her tongue in his mouth, which made him draw back.

"What'sa matter? I thought…"

"Oh, no, I just—"

"Let me try that again."

She sat on his lap, one of her legs on either side, told him to keep his hands where she could see them, and kissed the mouth she obsessed over whenever he talked. His hands almost immediately went up to her small breasts, and she stopped.

"What do you think you're doing?" she fumbled.

"Uh… I like these," he said by way of explanation. "Sorry, the Butch-man gets carried away."

"The Butch-man refers to himself in the third person?"

"Yeah." Since she hadn't climbed off or told him to stop, he continued his exploration of the upper portion of her anatomy, and in response, Shilo just held her breath and watched, all big eyes and white limbs. His thumb circled, and he squeezed, careful. "I like you, Shilo Wallace."

She whispered that she liked him, too.

The static on his radio became music. "We should go back," she said, blushing. "They really are going to worry." Another kiss, less awkward, and her tongue swirled around his, and her hand pressed his back. Perfect. That one should've been their first kiss, he thought. He closed the car door behind them and they headed back, hand very much in hand. They'd somewhat braved the Wastes. More importantly, they'd started that human exploration of each other, and while Shilo quelled at the thought of advancing in that arena, she was grateful that it would be with Butch, someone she related to, someone she _liked_. She'd never thought that would happen, and he'd kissed her, he'd kissed her, he'd _kissed_ her.

That was the first thing she'd told Graverobber, the first of a long list. Finally, after patiently taking it, he told her to shut up.

"I just don't care, kid," he said with enough ferocity to shut her up. "Not at all."

Which Shilo took to mean that he didn't care about her, either. It was a tense afternoon, between them; she gave a hurt gasp and went off to walk with Butch, leaving Graverobber to bring up the tail end of the gang.

* * *

><p>She forgave him later. It helped that he brought in their first source of meat in a long while: a ferocious dog that gave him little trouble. Shilo had learned to stop asking questions about where food out here came from, as no one would lie to save her appetite, so easily spoiled by truthiness. So she ate dog meat slathered with gravy in grateful silence. And the next day, lo and behold, they saw the sun dawning on Megaton. The sniper on the catwalk high above the ground waved them in, and the Lone Wanderer was (sort of) home, with all the perks that included. Her front door had a big, efficient lock on it (Graverobber tested it out; it worked), and the fridge was full of food.<p>

The Lone Wanderer tiredly pushed past her cohorts in the 'living room' to reach that fridge, fling it open, and stuff her face with potato chips and beef jerky. Not until she'd had her fill did she offer some to her guests. Shilo, still full on dog meat, politely declined.

Turning to Butch, her face lighting up, she asked, "Could you, um, show me around? The- the town, I mean. Megaton."

He grinned like a goon. "Sure thing, girl. Anything for a fellow Tunnel Snake."

They went out the door. The Lone Wanderer yawned and stretched her weary arms behind her weary back and felt it crack wearily. It was a sighing inside and out. There was dust in her hair and in the lines on her face. She did not, however, currently possess the energy to deal with the matter, and besides she had a broken heart to nurse, so she mumbled "I'm going to sleep" and headed up the stairs to do just that.

She'd not settled long under the sheets, with her eyes on the ceiling and her lips on a good bottle of wine when a tall frame filled her doorway. Graverobber. An irritated, anxious flickering in her gut sparked up. It was bad enough she had to put up with him because of Butch's fancying Shilo, and here he was disrupting her drinking and dozing. This was private time! She knew so because she wasn't wearing her bra; it was draped on her desk. Sitting up, she held the sheets to cover her chest, not letting go of the wine, either.

"Hey. I want to sleep, so would you mind awfully scooting over?" he said, smiling as if his request was reasonable and nothing to stare at.

"I do mind. Get out of here!"

"Oh, come now. Didn't your mother ever teach you to share?"

Her mouth puckered. Mother. No, of course not. He couldn't have known that, given how he was standing there, grinning. Rather than make a fuss which would end in a confession and her tears, she rolled her eyes and moved over, glad that she'd upgraded to a bigger bed—in anticipation, to be sure, of sharing it with Butch. Such hopes would now never come to fruition, and that bitter thought threatened to make her cry, so instead she chose to be angry at Graverobber for intruding and unintentionally poking the hornet's nest with a stick.

The hornet's nest being her, of course, and she stung him with a glare. "Give. Me. That," she snapped, pointing at her bra.

"Very well, milady." He fetched it and presented it with a flourish, watching her sneak it under her nightgown and re-snap it, his boredom unconcealed. "Have you another task for me?" he asked, irritated himself, wanting sleep.

"No. Keep your hands to yourself."

"Oh, I think I'll manage to control myself," he sniped back, taking off his enormous boots and trenchcoat. She moved close to the wall, hating how her heart sped up when his weight was added to the mattress. It wasn't fair. And she couldn't sleep until he did. Only then was she comfortable with lying back down and drinking. She hoped to finish the rest of the bottle.

"You want me to take that off your hands?" Graverobber interrupted.

She choked and sputtered. He'd certainly _seemed_ asleep. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's a lot of wine for one girl—person. Share the bounty, share the fun," he encouraged her in suave tones, just a hint of malice. It wasn't a threat, so she ignored him and emptied the bottle. He chuckled. "Okay. Goodnight."

"Go to sleep, Graverobber."

"Funny. She used to say the same thing."

He promptly fell asleep. A moment later, it occurred to her that Graverobber was as in love with Shilo as she was with Butch. Strange that it did nothing to mend her insomnia. Visions of Shilo and Butch making out on one of the makeshift city's walkways danced in her head and haunted her lack of dreaming.

She wasn't far from the truth. Shilo had Butch to a wall, and in the dark, no one was around who might disturb them. Her little body was along his, close and warm, and her mouth conveyed all the eager passion that had brewed since their first kiss. He groaned, and he clutched at her back, hauling her up on tiptoe so he could more easily explore her, her mouth, her body. He could feel her boobs mashed to his chest, and all that kept it from being skin to skin was his jumpsuit and her tank top. He broke the kiss to peek down at her cleavage and tell her it was awesome. Shilo smiled, her face flushed, her breath heavy, and he kissed her, spinning them so she was up against the wall.

Maybe he ground on her a little. She didn't seem to notice, or maybe that attention was why her hands suddenly tangled in his slicked hair, and her tongue moved a little less, because she was focusing on that slight movement in his hips. He moved with more insistence, and his knee went between her thighs.

"Butch! Wow. Hey, it's… it's really late," she breathed, stopping it all. Her hand dropped to hold his, give a reassuring squeeze. "Late. Maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe we could do this again sometime. In private." A furtive glance around. "You know, where we could be, um, alone."

"Doll, we _are_ alone." He smirked.

"I _know_. But alone as in… a locked door. A, um, a bed." She wasn't even looking at him now. It was adorable. "We could go exploring again."

"That's what you want to call it, Shilo? Sure, I'm up for it if you are."

He'd have to figure out some way to get this to happen without the Lone Wanderer or Shilo's strange bodyguard putting a stop to it. They were annoying enough to do that just to mess with him. He was sure of it. Butch let Shilo go back to the house on her own, though he walked her to do the door and let her give him a goodnight peck on the cheek. The night was pretty damn gorgeous, and so was the girl he'd just left there.

Shilo crept upstairs, missing Graverobber, and made not a peep. It was funny to find him in bed with the Lone Wanderer, although she knew right away that nothing had happened. All their clothes were on, for one thing. She crept in and shook Graverobber awake. He roused with a silent, leonine yawn.

"Whazzit?" he mumbled, rolling over to meet her pretty eyes with the black rings around like gothic Saturn in his sky. Sleep made him poetical in the worst way.

"I think Butch wants to fuck me," she whispered excitedly. "I think he does."

"Kid…" He groaned, sat up, careful not to disturb the woman beside him. She mumbled and turned over, safely sound asleep. "I do not need a play by play. All right?"

"I wasn't gonna," she pouted, a lie. "I wanted advice."

"Advice?"

"Yeah, advice. You have a lot to say about everyone, all the time, so it'd be nice if you could be useful." Petulant not-child, her cheeks and lips reddened by what activities, he didn't care to dwell on, and who did she consider a parental figure? The twenty-eight year old who'd held her through long, frost-bitingly cold nights, of course. "Please, Graverobber."

"Oh, very well." He got out of bed and put a hand to her back, ushering her out of the lady's boudoir and into the adjoining room, with its very comfy sofa. He expected one of the teens would end up sleeping curled up on the couch. Shilo would fit nicely. "What exactly is the issue? You want him, yeah?"

"Yes." She was cold and curled up to Graverobber. That's all he was to her, a life support system for an electric blanket. "Do you… care?"

"Me? Why would I care?" he demanded, trying his best to sound incredulous, impartial, immature.

She shrugged. "Okay, thought I'd ask. Because… because Nathan would've been furious. If he were still alive." To distance herself from her father, she'd taken to referring to him as 'Nathan' or 'Repo Man.' It was strange but, he supposed, ultimately harmless.

"Zombies voice no protests, and nor shall I," he said.

"Good. I'm really nervous about it, that's all. Is it too soon?"

"No. You've known him a while now. You're young, the world's dangerous, etcetera, so why not enjoy yourself while you can?"

"God, Graverobber, you can be so morbid," she laughed. "We're not gonna die out here."

"You still think it's safe to go home?" he fumed. "What did I tell you?"

Soberly: "Rotti's influential even past death and that driver was up to no good."

"We can trust these people, Shilo, because they're disassociated from society, with the exception of a few allies. Such as us. You trust the loners, because the bad guys—and, yes, that once included your friendly neighborhood Graverobber—are everywhere."

"That's why you helped me that day, before the Opera," Shilo concluded dully. It was a fact he'd explained to her before, followed by some profuse apologizing. It was unclear whether she'd ever entirely forgiven him.

"Yes. I then overhead what he had in store for you after the show and intervened on your behalf."

"Why? That must have cost you everything."

Because he'd grown fond of her. Because she was a good person who didn't deserve what had happened to her. Because she reminded him of himself before the world got to him. None of which he had the guts to say. Instead he said, "It was the right thing to do."

"What's the right thing to do here?"

"Fuck your boyfriend if you both want to. It's not that hard, kid. Hell, it's easy." He asked if that was everything. Smiling sleepily, she nodded, and they both went to bed, but not before she gave him a grateful hug. No goodnight kiss on the cheek, thankfully. He'd put a stop to that some time ago. So Shilo would share her first sexual experience with someone _not_ him, and he could live with that. If not… well, there wasn't much he could do about it. He wasn't her guardian, not really, and he was the furthest thing from her father without hitting female-gendered nouns. At least she liked the guy.

She could do a lot worse, and Butch? Butch couldn't do any better.

* * *

><p>The Lone Wanderer was not a morning person. It took them three hours to coax her out of the house, and even then, she was only just finishing getting dressed. Graverobber briefly admired the lady's backside in the black leather pants. She may not have dragged a brush through her hair in days, and her eyes had dark rings underneath, but hot damn, did she have some charms of her own. They went off individually, roamed about, got supplies, and met up at the gate a little past noon.<p>

"Listen up, everyone. I want to investigate this 'Holy Water' business. There's pamphlets all over my town, and I don't like it," the Lone Wanderer told them.

Butch muttered that she was a goodie two shoes. Shilo nudged him to be quiet.

"And I've heard complaints that a cult has been thieving Megaton's water.

The location—one Holy Light Monastery—showed up on Butch and the Lone Wanderer's Pip-Boys, right in Springvale. "Watch it, and stay close to me," she warned the other three. "Springvale's crawling with raiders. They ain't friendly, cuddly types, like me."

"We know," they chimed at her in imperfect unison.

It all went fine. Sort of. They found the place without incident, drank the Holy Water, and then it came to the radiation. To gain entrance to the real church, they would have to stand in the demolished house and let "Atom's Glow" purify them. What choice did they have?

"Here's an idea," the Lone Wanderer said, taking the group aside. "We could kill this Brother Gerard."

"No!" Shilo protested. "We have RadAway. What's the big deal?"

"Fine, but you can't complain about the headaches. Or anything else," she warned the girl. "Come on, then. We'll stand together, us girls."

"We're coming, too," Butch said.

"Don't speak for me, boy. … But of course I will join you," Graverobber said.

So they stood in the ruins and triggered the traps and soaked up the radiation. Shilo felt faint and leaned on the Lone Wanderer, apologized, staggered a little. "I don't think I'm going to be much help if there's a fight," she said.

It stopped, at last, and the Lone Wanderer felt ill. The nausea felt bone-deep, permeated her tissues. Brother Gerard told them to enter the church through the trap door. She thanked him. Shilo, amazingly enough, was the one who stopped it from being a bloodbath. The Lone Wanderer and Butch and Graverobber took one look at the ghouls wandering about and reached for their weapons; she stopped them.

"They aren't attacking," she said, awed. "What _are_ they?"

"Ghouls. Poor souls who spend too long in radiation without treatment," the Lone Wanderer explained.

"Fascinating!" Graverobber exclaimed, and darted off to examine one in closer proximity. "The dead walk!"

"They are not dead. They are blessed," said an old woman with a mass of wrinkles and fine white hair. She explained her beliefs, and asked if they were enlightened. She had taken Megaton's latest shipment of aqua pura and radiated it, distributed it as 'holy water.' Any deaths so far were justified as returning souls to Atom. The Lone Wanderer was furious. This bitch was poisoning people. That was evil. She deserved to lose her head. Shilo put a hand on her arm and gave a warning look. Cowed none at all, she still stopped her hand's journey to her weapon and let the gal have a chance to speak.

"This isn't right. You have to know that," Shilo said.

The Lone Wanderer snorted.

"Child, it is my sacred appointment to spread radiation across this land. Come, join us."

"No, I believe in something else," Shilo said, which made the woman's wrinkles crease further in a frown. "If you really believe in Atom… don't trick people. Let them find Him. Your church is right here, and we had no trouble finding it."

"That is true. Oh, what have I done? Have I prejudiced people against Atom?" she worried.

"Yes, you sure have," Graverobber called over from where he was scrutinizing a ghoul. "Tell her all about it, kid."

So Shilo explained the bad press around Megaton. She explained the reports that the people who died from the effects of the holy water were vagrants who couldn't afford medical help and died alone, unaware of what they were dying for. She said that she was recovering from a long battle with poisoned blood, and that she'd had to make herself sick just to say all this to someone who would listen, really listen.

In short, half of it was bullshit, but it made the old woman teary-eyed. Or perhaps they were cataracts, who knows.

The woman, Marie Curie III, said she'd stop irradiating the water. Shilo hugged her and said "Thank you."

It was all unspeakably sappy. The Lone Wanderer had wanted heads to roll and sprays of blood on the walls, and instead she had a peaceful resolution. Damn. They headed out. Graverobber was most reluctant to leave the ghouls, and _would not shut up_ about how interesting it was, that people could walk around like that. "Think ghouls have Z?" he asked Shilo, giving no information on what Z could be. She shrugged and smiled, still a bit frail. Not long after that, they lost their hair. It fell out in handfuls, clumps, masses, and they shrieked in dismay. The Lone Wanderer retained short blonde curls on her forehead in a sort of cap, and Butch had a toddler's worth of hair.

Graverobber, hilariously, was completely bald. He took one look at himself in his mirror and yelled that he was ruined. "Emasculated! That was… NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Graverobber, calm down!" Shilo pleaded. Which was when the other two noticed that she still had a healthy head of long, black hair.

"What gives?" Butch demanded.

Shilo admitted that it was a wig. "Lucky me," she said bitterly. "I'm always bald. You three need to suck it up. It's not so bad."

"Not so bad? NOT SO BAD? Do you have any idea how long it took to grow that? To _dye_ it? That was my crowning glory and it's gone!" Graverobber moaned, and stormed off, not quite fast enough to lose them, just enough to pout.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: At last, an update! Sorry about that, everyone. Now, if you're reading this, if you would kindly leave me some constructive criticism, I would love you forever and also give you cookies. This chapter is PG-13 but does not cross into adult territory.**

* * *

><p>The trio of recently afflicted travelers took to wearing hats for some time. Graverobber's hair came back slowly, without the plethora of glorious colors. It was plain brown, eventually grew to his shoulders, at which point he doffed his hat, opting instead for a bandana to keep away the sun. The Lone Wanderer didn't mind losing her pigtails for the time being, as her vision was no longer obscured by loose strands of hair, and there was less for the lazy warrior to maintain. Women in the Wastes weren't much for vanity, not if they wanted to survive. Shilo was by no means vain, but she did insist on taking the time to stay clean. Clean as possible under the circumstances, anyway. Infested with gore and dust and sweat, not much could be done about their clothing aside from giving them a good soak and changing often. There remained an unpleasant, sticky feeling of being steeped in a foul brew.<p>

"How does it look?" Butch asked of the Lone Wanderer in regards to his slicked, parted hair. It wasn't long enough as yet to comb into his preferred style, the flamboyant pompadour. She reached over and mussed it up, getting a slick handful of product on her hand. She shook the appendage, laughing. "Aw, not cool, not cool! Guess I should have expected that from you," he complained, not too crankily. Shilo helped his overall disposition. With that, he pulled out his switchblade, the Toothpick, and fixed up his hair again in its reflection.

Turning from him, the Lone Wanderer viewed the scene, more grisly than others they'd recently encountered: a diner, mesh bags stuffed full of organs hastily cut down and shoved aside, and Raiders blown to hell and back, their mangled bodies strewn in bits across the wall. Blood peppered the walls and floors. The windows and glasses on the bar were shattered by the blasts, the grenades outside contributing unhelpfully. After the victory their group lingered, patching up injuries and eating. They'd earned it. Currently, Graverobber and the Wallace girl were seated at a booth, sharing a boxed blueberry pie. Shilo's mouth was blue, and she was laughing at something he was saying quietly. There was that connection there, but on her end, it was not romantic, not that the Lone Wanderer could see. Graverobber managed to keep the stars out of his eyes, and the intimacy could easily be mistaken for a close and friendly type of bond. Wryly, she wondered if that was how her interactions with Butch came across to outside eyes. She wiped her right hand on a napkin and used her left to lift jerky to her eager teeth. Tore into it and swallowed.

Butch slid over to Shilo and put a hand on the table. "How's it hanging, gorgeous?" His smarmy grin was met with the girl's lovesick smile and Graverobber's obvious irritation. For a while, he'd been civil to Shilo's suitor, even occasionally friendly, but that had worn off. Now he was openly surly about the inevitable. Shilo's hand crept closer, spiderlike, and Butch trapped and caressed her knuckles.

"Fine," she answered softly.

Graverobber grunted something that sounded suspiciously like "ugh" and abruptly removed himself from their presence. The Lone Wanderer grabbed his lapel to stop him from exiting the diner. She had no problem touching people, in particular muscular, clueless men. Not that Graverobber counted. Of course he wasn't her type. Butch was her type: her age, her history, and that cocky grin. His attitude complemented her ruthless one perfectly, an eggshell split in two put back together. Still, she liked pushing people around.

"What is it now? Need me to braid your hair?" he snapped.

She smirked. "Aw, you don't want to watch the show? Fifty caps says they'll end up fucking before we get ten miles from here."

"We _can_ hear you," Shilo said, having turned around in the seat. Her hands were tight on the tarnished red leather, and Butch had his hand over his eyes while he laughed hard. It hadn't been all that funny; the two had to have been embarrassed.

"So would I lose the bet?" the Lone Wanderer asked.

"Girl, we're not rabbits," the Butch-Man replied.

There was a long pause.

Then Shilo piped up, "What's a rabbit?"

* * *

><p>Finally, the young lovers had their opportunity. After walking all day, the Lone Wanderer declared that they needed to stop for the evening. Otherwise, she concluded, they'd all be useless in a fight. In what she no doubt thought was a subtle manner, Shilo elbowed the leader of the Tunnel Snakes and nodded to a house on the hill. His eyes lifted up. In the low light of the moon, the differences in color were striking. She was a phantom, flickering whiteness trapped in green. Against the green, she was all the paler. Disgruntled, the Lone Wanderer looked down at her own dark hand. By the light of day Shilo looked anemic, and with that smug thought, that she at least had the appearance of health, she put aside her insecurities. So what if Shilo had Butch's eye for now. He'd once carried a torch for Amata, and that had passed. Eventually. With the help of liquor and a few not so secret tears amidst the bitching.<p>

"This is as good a place as any," Graverobber agreed. "Plenty of cover, and we'll be able to see attackers past the ridge there and there on either side."

He was right enough on that. The house on the hill, most likely a hotel, had been set up with fortifications by some long gone occupants, most likely violently deceased. Walls of sandbags four feet high, and room enough to make a discrete fire, lie back, and alternate between watching the sky and keeping an eye out for predators. Plenty of food still left in their packs; they wouldn't need to hunt or scavenge about for radiated goods.

Shilo tugged on Graverobber's sleeve. "Can we go exploring? Please?"

"I don't see why we can't make a foray," he said, patting her wig and then detaching her arm. He did all he could to discourage such touches, as if he couldn't stand it. The Lone Wanderer could reckon why: it reminded him that she was ignorant to what was going on inside his skull. She didn't see him that way, and tough luck for him. Tough luck for both of them. She felt a swelling of pity inside and quashed it. A grown man should be able to handle the hand he was dealt, even if it did mean giving up his hopes and dreams for the romantic future.

"That's, um, not really what I meant," she said. "Just me and Butch?"

He stared at her. "… Fine, kid. Go ahead. Tell you what, we'll keep watch out here and you two can… can go on ahead." He pursed his lips, biting back the rest of his words, and pushed her toward Butch a little. Stumbling, she grabbed onto the lad's shoulder to steady herself. Butch shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at the Lone Wanderer. She rolled her eyes and forced a grimace while telling herself that she wasn't half as bothered by it as she could be. Pretending. Lying. The four walked to the ramparts where they set down their packs and bags for the time being.

"Come on!" Shilo said, taking Butch's hand and rushing toward the hotel, half-running like a spastic kid racing toward a heap of birthday presents ready to be torn into. The double doors opened and closed behind them.

The Lone Wanderer rubbed her aching back. It was rare that she and Graverobber were left alone, and whenever it happened there was awkwardness and silence and a general sensation of being transported back to pimple-faced, greasy-haired adolescence. She ran a hand through the short crop of curls on her scalp, quickly catching knots and clumps of gore-matted dirts. Taking out a bottle of unappetizing water, dirt swirling inside, she hauled her ass on top of the nearest wall and bent her head. She dumped a conservative amount of H2O on her hair and put the bottle between her legs so she could massage the crud out of her hair.

"That's oh so attractive, watching you wring mud from your fair locks," Graverobber wryly commented. Throwing her head back and shaking it like dogs did for their coats, she saluted him with her middle finger. "Oh, and well mannered as well. Quite the catch."

"Oh… oh, shut up," she said, unable to think of a better comeback. He smirked, an expression that quickly faded.

There was no conversation wasted between them after that, retreating into their thoughts and growing surlier with each passing minute until the silence was a torture device pulling them into an angst whirlpool. Butch and Shilo didn't emerge as it grew darker. Tense, the Lone Wanderer got up from where she was sitting to make a fire. She heated her sealed container of fruit cobbler. What used to be thick nectar had over time become watery brine, but she choked it down anyway. It's delicious, yum yum, she told herself, cringing with each shoveled in bite. Her throat threatened to force the contents back out. And then it was over and she chucked the can on the ground.

Unbidden maggots of images crawled into her head: Butch drizzling kisses on someone else's throat and chest, another girl taking Butch's jacket from her shoulders, the couple wrestling on a creaking, dust-belching bed, flashes of naked skin. Angry and upset that she even cared, she looked over at Graverobber, lying on his back with his hands behind his head. The calm creep didn't give any indication that the girl he was in love with was causing him to hurt by rushing into a physical relationship. He was nonchalant and it pissed her off. She hauled up and stormed over.

"Why aren't you doing anything? Aren't you in love with her? You know she doesn't understand what she's getting herself into, and I don't think he does either!" she snarled, the volume mounting into shouts.

"Who says I'm in love with her?" he asked wearily, leaning up on his elbows. "Could be I just want in her pants. What is it that I'm supposed to do, Miss Know-It-All?"

"Oh, don't give me that. The person you're in love with is going to make a huge mistake because you don't have the balls to say anything! Man up!" she said, gesticulating wildly.

At which point he reacted, grabbing her arms and dragging her down on top of him. She, the capable and experienced warrior was accustomed to all manner of attacks by all manner of ferocious beasts, shrieked. Their bodies met. His hands tightened on her arms. They froze, eyes locked.

Graverobber never dropped his mask of suave casualness, even when looking at Shilo, even in a gruesome fight, and she was much the same, with her biting sarcasm and ferocity. Now he was… shocked? Dazed? Whatever it was, she was certain she mirrored it. Neither moved, trapped in cunctation. She'd have bruises on her arms from his firm hold. The intensity of his blue eyes boring through hers sent an unexpected shiver down to her belly, a shiver she was sure he felt.

The strange, foreign inkling struck her. He was hot.

As if waiting for her to realize that, he growled, "This is me manning up. How do you like it, huh?"

He threw her off. The Lone Wanderer landed on her side and rolled onto her back, stunned into muteness.

* * *

><p>Shilo let the door close, shutting out her friends and leaving her alone with her boyfriend. At least, she thought he was her boyfriend, but she wasn't entirely sure how to tell. She could ask. Butch had his hands on his hips, taking in the scene.<p>

There were, well, a lot of cobwebs, immense curtains of the ghostly material hanging between surfaces. The tall windows and the floors and just everywhere were cloaked in grey dust. Shilo breathed in through her nose and hacked, her chest tightening painfully, a remaining echo of what her poisoned medicine had wrought. Damn Nathan, she hated still being weakened by seventeen years of a bad practice. Tearing her thoughts from the past, she instead chose to admire Butch's gorgeous profile and light blue eyes. Her skin tingled at the thought of what they'd end up doing.

She knew next to nothing about sex, other than it involved a boy and girl taking their clothes off and rubbing together, kissing. That was how it worked in movies, and it always panned away before anything could happen. Butch surely would know what to do, and he would help her learn how to have sex. With him. She kept repeating that to herself, giddy, nervous, hopeful. Her feelings for him were changing rapidly. They spent more and more time together, looked out for each other in fights—moreso than they did for the other half of their party—and regularly stole kisses. He didn't have much interest in hand holding, saying it was for sissies, although he did talk about his feelings. "Yeah, Shilo, you're a cool chick," he'd often say, making her smile softly.

A skitter was brought to her attention, and more, closer together; not in the immediate vicinity, but something to check up on. She withdrew a pistol that she kept on a holster at her hip and held a finger to her lips. Best not to alert whatever it was that they were there with unnecessary chattering. Shilo crouched and crept forward, finger on the safety.

Radroaches. A lot of them. They skittered and squirmed and clustered, a veritable nest of them. Butch screamed like a girl. "Oh crap, oh crap crap crap!" he yelped, getting his tone under control so it sounded like him again. Shilo turned and clapped her hand over his mouth. Lucky for them, the bugs were busy munching on what looked horribly like a human carcass, a skeleton with bits of muscle clinging to the bones.

"They're just big beetles," she said, confused. She liked bugs so long as they weren't the giant variety. When they were, she had no issue exterminating them.

"I'm—I'm afraid of Radroaches," he confessed.

"Oh, Butch, it's okay. Here, take my gun." She pressed it into his hand and silently reoriented herself at his side, helping him raise his shaking arm, arranging it into a proper position. When he didn't, she reached over and turned the safety off. "Look. No, look, don't worry. I'm right here, here with you. I won't let them hurt you." She stroked his arm until the shuddering stopped and he could hold the gun steady.

"I, I can't," he protested. "You do it."

"You have to confront this sooner or later," she insisted. "We all have our fears, our little demons haunting us. Don't you want to be free of it?"

"More than you know. It's _embarrassing_."

"Squeeze."

He concentrated and popped the head off a roach. He managed to take out half the swarm, then Shilo pulled a loose board from the ground and ran in, crushing them with the board and her stomping boots. Obviously, he stopped shooting by then, his arms dropping to his side as he watched, half in shock. "Ewe ew ewww!" she said at the crunching underfoot, the bits of yellow innards spraying up and splashing her shoes. When all was done and the dead insects covered the floor, Shilo dropped the board and scraped her boots along the ground. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"You know, for a goody-two shoes, you're pretty badass," he said, letting out a nervous laugh. "Man. Let's not do that again."

"I don't hear anything else. I think we're safe," she mused, stepping forward to kiss him. She looped her arms around his neck.

He pulled back. "Whoa, whoa, hang on. Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I—what?"

"Gun." He showed it to her and tucked it back into her holster, then used it to yank her closer to him. His fingers lingered at her hip and trailed up her ribcage to rest at the side of her breast. The other hand went to her neck, accidentally brushing under her wig, and abruptly stopped. "Whoa. Sorry 'bout that, babe."

"For, um?" Her giggling stopped. "Oh." She blushed. Figured he would have a problem with her baldness, something she couldn't even control. Nevermind that he'd been bald for a spell. She was self-conscious about it and therefore was never without her wig. Without her wig, she felt exposed as the weak, ill thing she used to be. The evidence to Nathan's medicinal abuse was all over her: her pallor, her lack of height and shape and hair. Even the eyebrows were mostly drawn on. Shilo pulled back. "Do you, um, have a problem with how I look?"

"What? No, no, that's not it. You're great _now_. It's just, you're my girl." He stroked her cheek, carefully avoiding the black strands touching it.

"I am?" she asked breathlessly. "Really?"

"Yeah. C'mere." He kissed and kissed her.

Hand in hand, they found a room, checked it for creepy-crawlies and skeletons, and removed their weapons and then everything else, and the kissing turned into something more.

After, Shilo lay under the covers, watching him shuffle into his armored clothing. It hadn't been what she'd expected, and he'd seemed just as uncertain as she was. They'd figured it out eventually, but…

"Butch?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Are you, um…" For some reason, it was harder to talk to him now that they'd done it. Wasn't she supposed to be a woman now? Shilo felt just the same as she had before, mentally. Quickly, she asked if he was a virgin.

"A virgin? Shilo, we just got it on," he laughed.

"You know what I mean! Before that."

"Oh. Oh. No, there was, uh, one time." He handed Shilo her green dress. She slipped it on, staying in the oddly comfortable bed, and patted the mattress, inviting him back. He sat down and said she could ask for more info, if she wanted.

"Okay. What happened?" she asked gamely.

"Well, when I was sixteen, a girl sucked my Tunnel Snake in an empty classroom. It wasn't right," he grimaced. "Worst birthday present I ever had."

"No!" she gasped, a little delighted. She managed to refrain from teasing but had to indulge her curiosity. "Who was it? Who?"

"What's it matter? You don't know any of the vault gals," he said.

"Because I want to know and I had sex with you." She crossed her arms. "Come on, please?"

"No."

"I'll take my wig off," she threatened.

"Whoa, whoa, there's no need to be drastic. Susie Mack. There, you happy? What's it to you?" he asked, clearly embarrassed.

She grinned. "I'm telling the Lone Wanderer."

He pushed her down onto the bed, both of them laughing. Straddling her lap, he kissed her neck hard. She traced his cheek, smiling, finally content and, after a little shifting, comfortable with what had so recently occurred. "Hey, so I get that it wasn't great for an introductory course to fucking," he said.

"Lovemaking," Shilo mouthed.

"We can try again," he offered, winking.

"Oh, thanks," she said sarcastically. "Some other time, I'd love to. I think it'd be best if we waited and picked this up later. Give me time."

"That I can do." And there was a note of relief in his voice. "Come on, let's go back to the boring people."

"They can wait." Her eyes glittering mischievously, she pulled him down and abruptly flipped him on his back, kissing him quite sweetly, finishing with a nip to his bottom lip. He sighed shakily. She got off of him and dusted off her dress, stretched out her limbs in such a way as to give him a show of exposed thighs. "Okay. Now we can go."

Outside the door before he could get there, she approached the stairs, looking down with a little wonder, running her hands across the banister. There were stairs at her house, back on the island. She missed them, but they hadn't been optimal for sliding down. She wanted to boost herself up, straddle the wood, and slide down, hopping off at the end. It would be shame on her to keep setting herself up for disappointment by imagining the best. All she could do was keep her expectations low so she'd always be pleasantly surprised.

Shilo had a tendency to have high hopes. Her life should have taught her that was foolish and no good.

Her new lover left the bedroom where they'd awkwardly consummated their budding relationship. Her _boyfriend_, she reflected with some amazement. She had a boyfriend; she had some degree of normalcy in this crazy, fucked up world. Shilo Wallace, the girl who'd held her treacherous, loving father in her arms as he passed away, who'd almost shot Rotti Largo, who'd learned to fight in a human eat dog world, who'd shivered and cried and tossed and turned in the night in Graverobber's arms, now had a boyfriend. It made her feel a little more grounded in the world, like she was a participant. If she wanted to, she could go back and have sex with him again. She could kiss him, talk to him, touch him. There was affection and lust connecting effectively. It was fascinating, how quickly they'd gone from acquaintances to flirts to lovers. Truth be told, they'd been drawn to each other right from the start.

Her brow furrowed. Was there a problem with that? He'd gone after her immediately.

She didn't have much time to dwell on this because Butch came out, sliding an arm around her waist. Shilo stiffened ever so slightly. "Yeah, that was awesome. What's next on the agenda for my favorite girl?"

"Could we look for buried treasure in the dead and the ruins?" she asked, spinning lightly out of his grasp.

It was clear to her that she'd get her way for some undetermined amount of time into the future. It had to do with her sleeping with him, that much was clear, but the actual reason escaped her, and she didn't want to give it away by asking him, or show her ignorance by asking anyone else, so for the time being she'd have to contend with being happily in the dark. It wasn't a bad thing to always be getting her way.

"Where to?" Butch asked.

"Um…" She cast her eyes about and spied a closed door. "Over there." She darted up to the doorknob and gave it a wiggle. Locked. "It's locked! Why are there any locked doors? Did people decide they had to lock up before the bombs fell?"

The Lone Wanderer had explained about the bombs. She had no idea and at first thought it was a lie, as did Graverobber, but it did account for all the strange happenings in the Wasteland, and everyone they ran into said it was true.

"I don't know," Butch said. "Sucks for them. They never got to go back."

"No." Shilo made quick work of the lock, more proficient now with a bobby pin than she had been a month before.

The door swung open with a creak. They entered, vigilant, weapons raised, and encountered nothing but a few fleeing, tiny spiders. A dresser, a first aid kit, a bed, an open door leading into a bathroom. Inside the dresser was a lavender dress in a little girl's size; Shilo laid it on her arm. It would fit her.

Butch broke into the first aid kit, spilling the contents onto the floor. "Shit," he said, recovered, and stooped to sift through the findings. Most of it was worthless, empty pill capsules. "Alright! Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!"

He held aloft an inhaler: Jet. Shilo grinned and grabbed at it. "First puff's mine," she declared, tossing herself back on the bed.

"Only because you asked nice," he deadpanned. "Oh, wait. You didn't." Planting his foot on her stomach, he leaned over and snatched the drug from her loose hand. He sat down on the bed, raised it to his mouth, and depressed the end, inhaling deeply.

"Save some for me," she complained.

They wrestled over it, passed it back and forth, got high as high kites and tossed aside the empty inhaler. Her eyes glazed over, and she laughed up at the ceiling.

"Hey, Butch," she said, rolling over on her side to kiss his cheek and touch his short hair. The drug dulled her overactive mind and let her simply feel the affection in her heart for the boy lying right beside her.

"Yeah, doll?"

"You like me."

"Fuck yeah."

A nap was in order. She curled up. He didn't hold her. She missed her teddy bear and in the moment before sleep took her didn't know if she meant her literal teddy bear or her Graverobber, who was much like a teddy bear.

Dazed and content from sleep, she told Butch to wait at the bottom of the stairs and be ready to catch her. He was a little exasperated but said okay.

He'd be there to catch her. There wasn't much light except for where the moonlight spilled down through the cracks and gaps in the ceiling. Swallowing her fear, allowing only room for eagerness, Shilo climbed up on the banister, sitting sidesaddle like a modest Victorian lady. Her hands gripped the wood, and the new dress was clamped tight to her side by her elbow. She let go.

* * *

><p>Shilo and Butch emerged. She was blushing. He was shy. The Lone Wanderer stood up, passing it off like nothing had happened and, really, nothing had. There'd been a moment, only one, and she doubted Graverobber cared. He'd said what he said to intimidate her, not to rile her up in a more than friendly way. The fact was she couldn't ignore his looks anymore. He was tall and gaunt, no doubt because of the unforgiving nature of the Wasteland, and, even with the ridiculous paint smeared all over it, his face was handsome. Proud and handsome. Being on top of him had stirred up sensations she'd certainly never experienced, and hadn't wanted to feel from anyone else but Butch.<p>

Too late for that, she knew. Shilo's fingers were entwined with Butch's. They were lovers. The word turned to ashes circulating in the cogs of her brain, gumming up the gears. Lovers, damn it. Graverobber was scowling mightily, doing his best impression of an old man catching kids at play on his well-maintained lawn. There was that same look of trespassing on his space, this in spite of the fact that the kids were a ways back.

"Anything worth noting in there?" she asked.

"Nothing but Radroaches," Butch said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: This was written hurriedly in two days, and it shows, and I am sorry for that. Leave a review and I'll make sure it never ever ever happens again.**

* * *

><p>He didn't know how to react. There she stood in all her sunshine glory, the sky a backdrop. Shilo's motions were in step with Butch's as they picked up the pace, following the Lone Wanderer. The hissing snake attached to her back was worn, the appliqué threatening to peel off and leave the leather bare. Trembling, uncertain as a new mother offering her teat, Shilo held out her hand. Butch looked down and, without missing a step, squeezed it briefly, let go. Though the two were close together when the party stopped for rests, or slept close and murmured, stroked each other in the dark, there wasn't an overabundance of affection on the part of Shilo's not-so-new boyfriend.<p>

It had been near to a week since the incident at the defunct hotel. The Lone Wanderer had not acknowledged Graverobber since then, and he didn't blame her. In fact, he gave her the courtesy of reciprocating the silent treatment. He'd been as surprised as she—and, if her sudden rigidity was an accurate indication, she had been more than simply astonished. It would've made enough sense for her to feel tingly about him. Only natural, really; he was a catch. What tore up his thoughts was that he'd felt it, too. Looking ahead to where she walked, all alone, he observed the way she stalked, nailboard on her back, shiny black leather on her body. The Lone Wanderer was not delicate, not graceful. What she had was untamed madness.

He liked that, not knowing why.

The rising sun tried to catch up with her as she approached the horizon, the rays coming up and casting long shadows through her. Graverobber grinned and shook his head. The world had indeed come to an end if he was going to go another day without harassing her as punishment for wanting him.

Shilo took a step off to the side, admiring a plume of smoke. Her expression soon turned to horror; she raised her arms and swatted at the bugs circling her head. "Bloatflies, oh get them off!" she shrieked, too close to shoot, only able to bat and cry out at the peppery spits. Butch and the Lone Wanderer let out frustrated shouts that they couldn't do a damn thing with their weapons without hurting her.

"Helpless infants," Graverobber snapped, removing a BB gun. "Kid, get down!" Obediently, she dropped to her knees, hands over her head and neck, eyes closed tight. With pops in quick succession, the flies fell, lifeless, to the dirt. Shilo looked, picked up a bloatfly, and crushed it in her hands. The spiny excretions on her neck, she flicked off, wincing.

"Why didn't you do anything?" she demanded, looking from the Lone Wanderer to Butch.

"Duh, we ain't equipped for that," Butch said.

"No guns," the Lone Wanderer clarified.

"No help," Graverobber said.

Shilo got up with no help from anyone, glaring at all three. "Okay, first of all, shut up. Second, it is not okay that you two can't handle a firearm. It is dangerous out here, and the up close fighting will only get you so far. Some of these baddies are creatures you don't want to get close enough to attack that way."

"Boy, do we know that," Butch said with a little chuckle. "But what do you wanna do about it, huh? You going to teach me another lesson? 'Sides, I can shoot."

"You can shoot like I can spit," the Lone Wanderer said. She jerked a thumb at him. "Gave him a tossed aside pistol once, nearly took my arm off during a Raider onslaught."

"Hey man, I said I was sorry!"

"Enough!" Shilo said. "Neither of you are proficient enough to want to carry something to shoot with. We're changing that." She smiled at Graverobber. "I'm decent at very long-range precision work, but Graverobber's your man for raining bullets down on madmen and monsters. Do you mind giving these two lessons?"

"Hm?" He hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation, tuning in when she said his name. "Oh, of course. And how will you be paying for these lessons?"

Shilo won him over with three words: "My gratitude. Please?"

Graverobber concluded that he had become an unequivocal pussy. Then again, as he and the helpless infants moved off to the side of the broken road, he ogled the Lone Wanderer's ass, prominent in the tight pants. A good part of her back was exposed, crawling up until it met the border of her halter. And from there, well, there were her shoulders, shoulder blades, the muscles in her tawny arms reminding him of a cougar. Unlike Shilo, he was familiar with animals, even the unmutated ones, having frequented a zoo as a youngster. He'd seen the captive animals restlessly pacing in their cells and felt pity for them.

In the wasteland, animals had free reign; free reign to dispatch of anyone that crossed their path.

The cool weather made their leather – and his coat adorned with fur and frosted with a scarf—as practical as an animal's natural clothing. It helped the women feel pretty, with their tendencies for leather armor and long dresses, and it helped the men by seeing the women in their glorious tendencies. At least he and Butch had that much in common. Not much else.

"Alright, kids, time to learn about gunnery," he said.

The Lone Wanderer crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "This is ridiculous! I know how to shoot as well as any former vaultie."

"Oh, no she don't. Even in the vault, she couldn't hit a radroach to save her life. And here she is, couldn't save ours with one," Butch said.

"Traitor."

"You earned it, girl."

"Shush," Graverobber entreated them, depositing his packs on the ground and retrieving a case of ammo and several guns. "We'll start with the basics." Smirking, he said not to aim at something unless they wanted it all dead, to keep the safety on, and to keep their feet firmly planted. He explained that the energy had to go somewhere, hence the kickback. The Lone Wanderer was hesitant to approach him to take a rifle. She fell back on sarcasm, asking if next he was going to tell them which end of the gun to point. "No, that's part of the advanced class," he said.

Butch caught on fairly quickly. The Lone Wanderer fumbled, was caught off guard by the kickback in spite of his warning. He stalked behind her, arranging her arms so the butt of the gun was against her collarbone. From that position, he could see her stiffen, smell the gleam of sweat on her neck, under her unruly yellow hair. He wanted to make her squirm and so leaned in, touched her shoulder, and let his breath run by her ear. A shudder rippled through her, and before he knew it, her left elbow connected with his gut. Graverobber doubled over, coughing.

"Fuck off," she snapped at him.

"With pleasure," he grunted, moving on to the general area behind both participants. "Listen up. Rifle and shotguns you hold on the side where your dominant eye is." He explained how to line targets up in the sights. "Rifles fire single bullets. Shotguns fire shells with little pieces of metal inside. Most of both you gotta pump the chamber after firing to clear the round. I know, I know; complicated, but it is what is it. Got it?"

"Yeah, can we go now?" Butch said.

Strolling to the side, Graverobber pointed to two giant ants some distance from them. "If each of you can nail one of those motherfuckers, we can move on to handguns."

"Oh, yeah, I can do this," Butch said, aiming. In the time it took him to ready his shot, the Lone Wanderer had shot her ant twice and, glaring, tossed down the rifle and waited for Butch to finish. He laughed uneasily and followed suit, killing the target. They covered handguns, big-ass guns, assembly and maintenance—the latter especially important in their travels. At their ignorance, Graverobber smiled and said that he thought _he_ was green.

"You're green until you fight a mutie," the Lone Wanderer said.

"Oh, leave them alone, Graverobber." Shilo had knelt and pulled out a packet of Mentats and a book. During the lesson, she'd popped one of the fruity brain enhancers and studied. "I'd like to go there," she said.

"And where would that be?" Butch asked.

"Where the smoke rises. Can't you see it? There could be settlers." Looking at Butch, she said "Who knows? Where there's smoke, there could be dragons."

It wasn't like they had anywhere better to be, though initially Butch asked why they couldn't go to Rivet City for a drink. "Dragons," the Lone Wanderer said. "Remember?" She was always up for adventure, and her curiosity was piqued. Her steps went ahead, faster and surer than the others, the compass on her Pip-Boy guiding the way. The place wasn't marked on her map, and that was just fine by her. Something new to discover, and they were just the intrepid wanderers to do the discovering. Any loot would be theirs. Any glory would be theirs.

* * *

><p>They weren't halfway there when they encountered a caravan of one. A young, weathered lady bundled in an enormous coat led a Brahmin carrying saddled packs. She did not see them. Shilo tugged on Graverobber's sleeve and asked if they could please, please go to her and see if she had any soda.<p>

"Yeah, we're running low on water," the Lone Wanderer noted, shaking her canteen. "Butch has some booze, I recollect, but that's not exactly handy for hydration. Come on, gang." The lady looked like she wanted to run, uncertain if they were raiders or mercenaries, but once she was close enough to see they weren't brandishing weapons or shooting weapons, she smiled and approached. The lady pulled down the hood of her coat, revealing bright orange hair and pale freckled skin. Glasses left an odd tan on the bridge of her nose. Beneath the coat was a dirty white tank top and loose cargo pants. She wasn't too heavily armed, just a newly crafted railway rifle.

She immediately launched into her sales pitch, shaking their hands one by one. "Great to meet you. They call me Healthy Heather, know why?"

"Uh…" Shilo said, starting to regret the stop.

"I sell the cleanest water in twenty miles! Got other goodies, too: Teddy bears, soda, enough food to stuff a mutie, and all at very reasonable prices."

Graverobber turned on the charm and got four bottles of water and a case of crackers which he passed to Shilo. She cracked them open, thanking them both.

"Say… ain't you the one that Three Dog talks about on his program?" Handy Heather gasped. The Lone Wanderer shrugged and said so what if it was. "Oh, I'm a huge fan! Tell you what, why don't the both of you go ahead and stick out your Pip-Boy arms." She and Butch complied. "I'll program in the coordinates to my place. It's not far from here. You ever need anything, I'm your gal."

"Uh… thanks?"

Heather gave raggedy business cards to the remainder. They were printed with an address and a smiley face. Hands pocketed them without much thought.

"Well, I should be going. See you around the wastes," she said, and went on her merry way. The group shrugged and agreed that she was nice but odd.

"Even I'm not that cheery," Shilo noted.

"You don't make a good living like she does," Graverobber pointed out.

It was sunset when they arrived at the small town where the smoke originated, a result of a large, contained fire on the dead grass bursting up from the asphalt. The houses weren't much to view. Seven on either side, fully intact, the lawns spraypainted green, and nothing living emerged to greet them. For all intents and purposes, it was a ghost town. They started down the hill to the street, somewhat uneasily. There was something dreadfully wrong here that couldn't be identified, not really. It was too perfect. The Lone Wanderer said something about "Tranquility Lane," which meant nothing to the rest of them.

And it happened, a hail of bullets from all around, causing them to scatter. Weapons were drawn, shots returned, but all in all they were surrounded and outmanned, five to one. The four were separated, helpless and spinning with their arms, not daring to fire for fear of creating another round of gunfire, and there were men in a circle, on the hill, atop the houses, with their victims in the crosshairs. Graverobber's heart was pounding a mile a minute, though he tried to be brave and nonchalant for the sake of the young.

He wanted to take Shilo's hand, grasp it, and tell her it would be okay.

A woman approached in a dirty dress and impractical antique, red high heels. She, too, had a gun, a pretty pistol. "Drop your weapons," she ordered. They had no choice but to comply, tossing it all in the center as she indicated. She nodded, and called up, "Good. Hammer, Clyde, you know the routine. Trey, take the gentlemen's dangerous objects." Two nimble men in hats and shades dropped down from a roof. Unable to do anything, Graverobber watched as Shilo and the Lone Wanderer were grabbed, arms behind their back, and guns put to their heads. A third man sidled up where he leaned in a doorway, pushed a shopping cart forward, and picked through the pile for guns, knives, all manner of unpleasant and potentially harmful objects. It all went into the cart and was wheeled from them. The woman's smile was satisfied but not cruel. "Okay, boys, feel free to pick up your toys and skedaddle. Don't struggle or we'll blow their brains out." The Lone Wanderer kicked backwards, briefly throwing her assigned man off guard, and cried out when he twisted her arms tight with one hand and pushed insistently with the gun with the other. "That goes for the young ladies, too."

"You heard her. Let's go," Graverobber called to Butch. He held his breath, eyes on the men, not trusting them to let them leave with their lives. But they cleared the town, back where they came from.

"You crazy? We gotta go back for them!" Butch said.

"Think I don't know that? But we can't go in blind. You don't like me and I sure as shit don't like you. What choice do we have but to work out a plan together?" Graverobber concluded that they would have to put their heads together, stay calm, and save their friends. "In the meantime, I suspect the young ladies can take care of themselves." The Lone Wanderer could, at any rate.

The fancied up woman told the two men to be gentle while removing the young ladies' belongings and then to let go. She approached, and from close up, Shilo could see that she missed several teeth and had a scar on her neck in the impression of a collar. "What are your names, dears?"

"Don't answer," the Lone Wanderer said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, why can't we be courteous? Very well. This way, if you please," she said, leading them to the largest house and then within, into the dilapidation, into the wreckage and ruin. The roof all caved in, dust in the air, the stairs precarious, the girls were shoved onto the couch whilst their fancied-up captor sat across from them in a moth-eaten armchair. "Can we get you anything? Something to drink?"

Shilo meekly asked for a cola.

"No, we don't want anything from you. Let us walk out of here and no one has to get hurt," the Lone Wanderer growled.

"No one's going to be hurt, I assure you." This close, Shilo could see the gentle folds of fat under the woman's clothes and holding onto her neck and cheeks. She was not a typical gaunt inhabitant of a nearly abandoned town. However she made a living, it was a comfortable one. Shilo squirmed uncomfortably, afraid of the answer to the unasked question: for what purpose had they been seized?

"Why—why are we here?" she said, quiet at first, then more insistently. "What do you want with us?"

"Nothing terrible, dears," the woman assured them. "We couldn't have those pesky men interfering, you see."

"With what?" And, in a way, she knew. She'd known as soon as she saw the ratio of women to men. That is, there were none. She and the Lone Wanderer were the only ones. The one before them was middle aged and…

As if it were obvious, she smiled and answered. "Why, to be brides, obviously. You'll be put up in fine accommodations for the night and picked up in the morning by two of the finest gents you ever did see."

"You mean the highest bidder," the Lone Wanderer said. She took Shilo's hand in her callused one and brought her up on her toes. "We're leaving. Fuck this."

"Language! Now, sit," she commanded. "If you leave, this poor thing will be riddled with holes. Or do you not care? Are you… together?"

The Lone Wanderer retracted the protective touch. "That's ridiculous. Just because I don't want her to die means I have to be in love with her? Say, is that a collar tan line?" Her hand made an accusatory gesture, and her gaze went bright. "You're from Paradise Falls, aren't you? Well, what do you know. A former slave become the slaver."

A flash of horror flitted on the older woman's face, and her hand flew out and whipped the Lone Wanderer's cheek with a harsh noise. Shilo cried out when she hit the floor. She spat red juice out on the wood, and the next thing that happened in that blur of realized horror was both their arms being bound, lifted up, dragged outside and in opposite directions. Shilo felt numb all through her senses, barely registering that she was struggling, desperately struggling, as if her freedom depended on it, scarcely hearing the Lone Wanderer crying out words of comfort even as they opened the door to a barely lit shack. The strong man lugging her tossed her in. Her head cleared enough to rush at the entrance, not reaching it in time. His laughter wrung knots into her stomach, and he teased, "Get enough sleep, wifey. And don't try to get out. Your wedding's in the morning."

"Let me out!" she begged, pounding on the door, and was ignored.

At first, she'd curled up in the fetal position, sobbed, and longed for her friends. The world was cruel to shut her off from the outside world, locked up and all alone. She'd had seventeen years of that, only now the hours that slipped past would end in her belonging to any creep with enough caps to buy an unwilling girl. After that, her head refused to follow the thought to its all too clear conclusion.

The initial sorrow ebbed following about an hour, her tears having fallen dry. A bed was far from the window and bolted to the floor; all the furniture was. And they'd put a thin blanket and teddy bear on the bed for some meager amount of comfort. To provide the right homey touch, a flower in a flimsy, plastic vase was on the table along with a pot of coffee and a brahmin steak. They'd wasted no expense to provide for their cattle. She wondered how many girls had been cloistered here, and shuddered.

There was no hope for escape, and she hadn't a chance without her gear, without a way to reach and break the high glass window, a knife to stab through the basement door, a gun to kill her captors. Well, if things had to be so terrible, she would be 'married' under her own terms. With the elbow-high water in the chipped bath, she rinsed the dust and specks of blood from her face, her legs, under her nails. If she was pretty, if she was docile, maybe the man wouldn't be violent with her. Maybe on their travel to his home she would have a chance for an escape, as well as a chance to deliver sweet death onto the man who dared to touch a girl who said or shrieked no. Nothing else to do but wait for her fate to happen to her, she took the teddy bear in her arms and fell upon the mattress. While lying there, she softly sang, calming her painfully pounding heart and comforting herself.

"...when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will fall, baby cradle and all…"

* * *

><p>"Crap crap crap crap! These girls are still out there!" Butch moaned from where he paced in the bloody sunset, steadfast hair ruined by his frightened fingers. Frantic, he crashed down.<p>

Graverobber rolled his eyes and put a hand on the boy's hair and muttered "There there, and so on."

"They're defenseless!" Butch almost protested.

Wryly, Graverobber said "I'll call the Lone Wanderer a lot of things. Defenseless isn't one of them. Now, Shilo, on the other hand…" Both boys looked more than grim, then. Anything other than fear for the small, trembling creature in the clutches of some unknown enemy trickled down and gathered in a pool inside their thick skulls. It was time to put aside their differences—for the time being, anyway. "The Lone Wanderer," he went back to, hastily putting the subject back to something relatively cheerier. "She'll be fine."

"No, you're right on. We're the ones without protection. All we got's the clothes on our sweaty backs and more caps that you'd want to shake a stick at, and then beat the guy to death with that stick to take his caps."

Graverobber chuckled. "Where oh where will we procure affordable guns and armor at this late an hour?"

And, sharing a look, they both knew.

Consulting Butch's Pip-Boy, they reached the place in under an hour, all the while avoiding all manner of nasty beings that skulked around corners and in hideaways in the dark. The girls were relying on being rescued, they couldn't go getting caught themselves. That would not do. And they made it unnoticed and unscathed. Only then did Graverobber allow the both of them to stand normally, let Butch put the light of his Pip-Boy back on. In the light, they could better see the small garage they'd been led to.

It wasn't much to look at, truth be told. A wood sign over the top said HANDY HIDEAWAY, but most of the consonants had fallen off and splintered, as had the sadly painted walls. Someone had attempted at white. Remnants, chips of off-white, remained on the dead and yellowed wood. A tall, electrified fence surrounded the property, and a buzzer was at eye level on the door to get past it. Graverobber and Butch shared a bemused moment and shrugged. Graverobber pushed the button, heard it jingle from within.

"Yes?" growled a gravelly and heavily accented voice.

"Uh, we're here for Heather. She met us earlier. Four people, two men, two ladies…"

"Oh, Sven, get off of the comm., they're good people!" interjected Heather, chipper as she'd been before. The gate swung open. She implored them to hurry their asses through before the gates smack them and shock through to their brittle bones. The door opened, pouring out crackling yellow light. A work bench on the far wall, a refrigerator and oven, along with an open door guarded by messy counters—crusted with food and plates. The entire place was something of a mess, one she made no attempts to apologize for.

"Nice to see you again," Heather said, grabbing aside an wrapping one arm around the man in the blowtorch mask. He grunted. "May I introduce you to my boyfriend? In addition, he's my helpful assistant."

The man flipped up his mask, revealing that he was a ghoul with barely a handful of blonde hair on his scalp. He was mottled all over, his skin mostly covered but not enough to disguise the rot, and definitely not enough to cover the stench of decay. That, along with the layer of sweat and metal, made Butch have to work to keep the bile from ripping out of his mouth. He forced a smile to prevent a gag.

"Yeah," Sven grumbled, and flipped the mask back down without attempting to shake hands or otherwise interact. Annoyance twisted her head about; what the fuck are you doing, she was saying without uttering a single word. He went to the work bench and hammered at metal, sending sparks flying all over.

"Feel free to look around," she said to the customers of the cases on the walls, cases that could be opened so as to look at the guns, boxes of ammo, and individual pieces of armor. "Bring the products over and I'll ring you up. Oh, and if you try to leave with stolen goods, Sven and I will make you sorry."

She touched the slender pistol at her side, driving home her point.

"Got it," Graverobber said. "Thank you kindly."

After she walked off to clear up the plates on the counter, the fellas took to looking about it, taking into account what their budget allowed for. Butch had more extravagant tastes than his comrade, who wanted the bare minimum.

"Come on, man. Look at this raider armor," Butch said, admiring the leather and unnecessary, decorateive spikes.

"No. We have to get what we need and leave," Graverobber said, slamming the case shut. Fortunately, the glass didn't break, though Heather paused in her cleaning to glare and mutter under her breath.

A girl walked through the open door, shying away from the sparks with an "aiiee!" A stack of manuals were in her arms. "Hey, Heather, this what you needed?" She dropped them on the counter. The girl was around the same age, in loose, blood-dried shirt and pants, with short brown hair.

"Thanks, Anna."

"Enough. Could you hurry it up?" Graverobber said, bringing his purchases to the counter. "We gotta dash."

"What's the rush?" Anna wondered, leaning on the counter with her elbows. Heather, meanwhile, had left the plates alone to watch Sven work and ask how her invention was coming along.

"Friends of ours, they're in danger. Please, hurry," he begged, feeling like he was trapped in a graveyard and on the run. The last time he'd done so, the kid was with him. He couldn't help but feel that he'd failed her.

Heather spun about. "Say, this wouldn't happen to involve a hick village, desperate for folk to barter like animals? Except for screwing? Oh, shit, is that why it's just the two of you and you're buying rescuing gear?"

"Yeah, that," Butch said hurriedly.

"Annie, give 'em a discount. Be quick about finishing their purchase, will ya?" their new pal instructed. Heather reached under the counter and pulled out a small canister with tape wrapped 'round it with "RADIATION" scrawled in black marker. "Nuka grenade. Use it careful-like. Here, have three."

"Thank you," Graverobber breathed out, handling them with the utmost, glass-worthy care, stowing them in his saddlebag.

"I expect to hear this on the radio," she called after them; they shuffled into their armor while leaving the strange place.

They had a single shared purpose: get back to town. Sneak in. Save the girls, in particular Shilo. Everything else could wait.


End file.
